


Minor chords in a major key

by Sani86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Anathema is the best, Boys In Love, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous references to old rock music, M/M, Poetry, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt, especially queen, guitarist Crowley, rock music, terrible OC parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25860445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: Azirapahle Felton transfers to St Francis' Academy for his final year of school, stepping into his older brother Gabriel's illustrious shadow with the firm knowledge that he could never measure up.Anthony Crowley is his roommate; he would rather be a musician, but his father has other ideas that he's determined to enforce, and school is as much an escape from his family home as a means to an education.This story tells the tale of the year that they shared a room; a year that would change the trajectory of both their lives forever.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 252
Kudos: 154
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. First day of school

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UlsPi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/gifts).



> This is another fic inspired by my long-standing obsession with Dead Poets Society. It plays out in the mid-80’s though, because Queen. And nobody dies, because this is my fic and I only write happy endings.
> 
> Funny enough, this is the first GO fanfic I started writing, way back in early March. Then I got a little distracted and published six (!) other GO fics. But here we are, back to square one.
> 
> Just for context, St. Francis’ Academy is situated in the town of Tadfield, which we’ll assume is somewhere just south of Oxford for the sake of the story.
> 
> This one is, again, dedicated to UlsPi, because without their support I'm sure I would have stopped writing about five fics ago. Luv ya, friend!
> 
> Updates probably twice a week. Chapter count may change, depending on how long it takes me to wrap up the plot (11 are already written)

_September 1985_

Aziraphale Felton shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling decidedly out of place. He felt uncomfortable in his new school uniform; the blazer itched, the trousers sat too snugly around his middle and the tie felt like a noose around his neck. And that was nothing compared to his psychological discomfort. Every other boy, except maybe for the brand-new juniors, seemed to know exactly what to do and where to go; stern-looking old men – the teachers, he assumed – flanked the auditorium, glaring at the students as if daring any of them to crack a smile. It was all terribly intimidating. Aziraphale shrank back in his seat, hoping to make himself as inconspicuous as possible; hoping, perhaps, that if he sank back far enough the earth would open up and swallow him. Even though he’d grown up in Tadfield, the place hadn’t felt like home in years. Oh, how he wished he could rather go back to London and the familiar life he’d had there.

“Ladies and gentlemen; boys; welcome to the start of a new academic year,” boomed a voice from the stage. Aziraphale looked up at the imposing figure standing at the podium. He recognised the stout, balding middle-aged man as Dr Sanderson, the school’s principal.

“You are fortunate to be sitting here today. Honoured, in fact. As a student of St. Francis’ Academy, you can count yourself as the best of the best, the cream of the crop.”

Aziraphale let his mind wander a bit at this point; heaven knew, he’d heard this sort of thing from Gabriel often enough. His elder brother had graduated from St. Francis years ago – valedictorian, student council president, captain of every sports team he cared to join. Aziraphale cringed inwardly as he recognised at the contrast with himself.

He let his gaze drift among the boys filling the rows in front of him, trying to guess which were the seniors – his classmates. It was rather hopeless, though; all he could see were the backs of their heads. At this unpromising angle, only one boy stood out, hair flame-red in a sea of browns. He looked tall, so maybe also a senior? At least he wouldn’t be the only conspicuous one, with his almost-unnaturally-white blonde curls, Aziraphale thought idly. Apart from that, he could tell nothing about his fellow students, so he gave it up as a lost cause and turned his attention back to the stage.

Dr Sanderson had stopped his pontificating about the virtues of the school, and was introducing a new teacher.

“As you know, Mr Jones of the History department retired last year. His post will be filled by Miss Anathema Device, who recently completed her PhD at Oxford. I assure you that she is more than capable of upholding the standard you have come to expect for your sons’ education.”

Miss Device (Dr Device? Didn’t he say she had a PhD?) smiled in acknowledgement, and there was a smattering of applause. Aziraphale got the impression that new faces on staff were a decidedly uncommon occurrence. A quick look suggested that she was the youngest, and certainly prettiest, teacher on staff; the only other teacher who looked to be less than fifty years old was a dazed-looking man in thick spectacles with messy hair and a crooked tie. Aziraphale thought he looked like a caricature of a scatter-brained mathematician.

After the assembly was dismissed, Aziraphale found himself being bustled to the door by his mother hanging onto his forearm. She was making a beeline for Dr Sanderson, heaven help him.

“Mrs Felton!” the principal greeted her gregariously, smiling with his mouth only. Aziraphale noticed that the man was shorter than he had looked standing on the podium; most of the senior boys probably had an inch or two on him. Nevertheless, there was something intimidating in his imperious stance and unblinking stare.

“Dr Sanderson!” His mother replied with a smile. “This is Aziraphale, our youngest.”

At this, Sanderson turned to him. “Welcome, young man. You’ve got some big shoes to fill, eh? Your brother was one of our finest.” Sanderson may have thought he was being welcoming, referring to Gabriel, but it just made Aziraphale’s stomach knot together in anxiety.

“Mrs Felton, you and your husband must come join me for a cup of tea. I would love to hear how Gabriel is getting on.” Sanderson turned to the crowd of boys walking past them, stopping the first senior he spotted. “You, boy!”

The boy turned around, looking briefly annoyed. As coincidence would have it, it was the red-headed boy Aziraphale had spotted in the assembly earlier. “Take young Mr Felton here to the office and get his room sorted out, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, and beckoned to Aziraphale to follow him with a yank of his head. His parents and Sanderson had already resumed their conversation and were ignoring him, so he shrugged and followed his guide.

The redheaded boy had long legs and Aziraphale had to hurry to catch up. After a few strides, the redheaded boy turned to him, perhaps noticing that his new charge was falling behind. He stopped and turned around, extending a hand. “Name’s Anthony Crowley, but I prefer to go by Crowley.”

“Aziraphale Felton,” he responded, shaking the proffered hand.

“Jeez, that’s a name and a half. Mind if I call you Az?”

“Um, sure,” Aziraphale replied. No-one had ever called him by a nickname before. It felt odd for a virtual stranger to do so. Odd, but not necessarily bad.

The redheaded boy had set off again, but he’d slowed his pace for Aziraphale to keep up, walking with a loose-hipped swagger that suggested he was listening to some sort of music that only he could hear.

Aziraphale wasn’t too familiar with the layout of the school, but he was pretty certain they were walking in the wrong direction. “Sorry, but isn’t the office that way?” he asked timidly, pointing back over his shoulder. “I have to go find out which room I’m in.”

“Nah,” replied Crowley, “You’re sharing with me. I moved my stuff in earlier. So, unless you need to get something else from there, I can go show you the room first? We can get your bags later, looks like your parents will be busy for a while.”

“Um, sure,” said Aziraphale. Crowley seemed to know what he was doing, so it would probably be easiest just to follow him.

“So, your parents know Sanderson?” Crowley asked as they walked toward the dormitory building.

“Yes,” Aziraphale responded, “My brother was here, years ago.”

“Wait a minute,” Crowley said. “Felton – as in Gabriel Felton?” He whistled through his teeth. “And you’re keeping up the family tradition, eh?”

Aziraphale sighed inwardly. “I suppose,” he mumbled.

“Hmm, well, that’s a thing.” Crowley said, half to himself. He seemed reluctant to say more about it, and Aziraphale was grateful; he’d had quite enough of talking about Gabriel for one day.

They walked on, Crowley keeping up a running commentary like some kind of tour guide, pointing out the different buildings and occasionally greeting other boys with a wave. Before long, they reached the dormitory building and made it to their room. Crowley swung the door open dramatically and bowed like an over-dramatic butler from a Monty Python sketch, gesturing inside. “Here we are – home sweet home.” Aziraphale couldn’t help but grin at his new roommate’s silliness as he stepped inside.

Aziraphale took in the sight of his new home. The room was small, only wide enough for the two single beds with little more than the width of another bed between them. At the foot of each bed was a desk with a wardrobe next to it, and that was it. He would have to close the bedroom door to even be able to open his wardrobe.

His side of the room was bare, obviously, but Crowley’s desk was already piled with books. His pinboard sported a poster of some music group that Aziraphale didn’t recognize and a couple of photos. A black leather jacket was draped over the back of Crowley’s desk chair, and was that a guitar case sticking out from under the bed? Aziraphale felt strangely grateful for these little touches of personality – if nothing else, it made the room feel a little less like a prison cell.

Aziraphale had barely made it to his bed when a gaggle of boys filled the doorway.

“Crow-man! What’s up?” exclaimed a boy with wavy, dark-blonde hair as he raised a hand for a high-five.

“Hellspawn!” Crowley responded, meeting the other boy’s hand and pulling him forward into a loose hug. “How was your summer?”

The other boy flopped down on Crowley’s bed with a “you wouldn’t believe the half of it,” as three more boys crammed into the tiny room, the last one kicking the door shut behind him.

Aziraphale had sunk down on his bed, overwhelmed by the circus that was taking over their room. Crowley was clearly part of a close-knit group of friends. Aziraphale felt strangely put out at this; he’d dared to hope he and his roommate would become friends, but Crowley was clearly well-served in that area already.

The four other boys were all talking over each other, exchanging snippets of news from their summer holidays, seemingly oblivious to Aziraphale’s presence. To his horror, the boy known as Hellspawn had lit a cigarette, passing it back and forth with Crowley, who was carefully blowing the smoke out of the open window. _Great_ , thought Aziraphale with a sigh.

He must have made a sound, because a bespectacled boy turned to him, seemingly noticing him for the first time.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, extending a hand to Aziraphale. “Jeremy Wensleydale, although I can’t remember the last time anyone called me Jeremy.” They shook hands.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Crowley coughed from his perch at the window. “Everyone, this is Aziraphale. Az, this is Adam the Antichrist,” he gestured at the boy still sprawled out on his bed, who raised a hand in a lazy salute. “Brian,” Crowley gestured to a dishevelled-looking, dark haired boy; “Michael,” a boy who was as fastidiously groomed as Brian was messy; “And you’ve already met Wensley.”

Aziraphale waved shyly to the other boys, making an effort to memorise their names.

“Az is Gabriel Felton’s brother,” Crowley continued, with the air of someone imparting a juicy secret. This earned a few raised eyebrows and a low whistle from Adam. Az blushed; he’d been hoping to keep that under wraps for as long as possible.

“Well,” said Adam. “Welcome, I guess. Don’t believe what the Golden Boy told you, this is hell.”

Aziraphale was amused at Adam’s nickname for Gabriel. At least it didn’t seem like they were part of the Gabriel Adoration Club that he’d been living with his whole life.

“They’ll work you till your brains bleed out your ears. Unless, of course, you’re a genius, like Wensley.”

“Flatter me all you want, it still won’t get you through maths,” retorted Wensley.

“Or accounting, or science, or-“ Brian continued, but was cut off when Adam threw a pillow at his head.

“Anyway,” said Adam pointedly, with the air of a businessman chairing an important board meeting, “To business: study group. Wensley, you’re in charge of maths and accounting per usual. Crow, you take science and biology. Michael, you’re our resident expert in ass-kissing.”

“Fuck you, Adam,” Michael sneered, as the others burst out laughing.

“New kid – you particularly good at anything?”

“Uhm...” Aziraphale stammered, embarrassed at suddenly being the centre of attention. “Not really, no, I don’t think?”

“Well, join us anyway,” Adam said gregariously. “The more the merrier.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Adam hastily stubbed out the cigarette and tossed it out the window.

“Come in,” Michael called. _Not your room, but sure, go ahead_ , Aziraphale thought.

The door opened to reveal a stern-looking middle-aged man in a severe grey suit.

“Father,” said Crowley, clearly surprised at the unexpected visitor. The other boys moved to stand up, but Mr Crowley gestured to them to stay seated.

“Anthony,” he said, turning to Crowley, “I’ve been speaking to Dr Sanderson, and we feel you’re taking too many extra-murals. You need to focus on your academic work if you want to get into business school. So we agreed that you will drop the school play.”

“But, Father!” Crowley retorted, shocked, “I’m part of the band! You know it’s the first year we’re doing live music for the play. I’ve been looking forward to it for months!”

“Anthony!” barked his father, silencing him. “Outside, if you will.”

Crowley acquiesced and followed his father out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Aziraphale watched as the other boys exchanged a knowing glance. “Poor guy,” said Wensley, shaking his head.

“His old man’s a nightmare,” explained Adam for Aziraphale’s benefit. “He’s made up his mind that Crowley has to take over the family business, and he won’t budge. Thinks music’s just a waste of time.”

_Well, don’t I know what that’s like_ , Aziraphale thought to himself. His parents were equally adamant that he should study law, join Gabriel’s firm once he graduates. He felt a surge of sympathy for his roommate.

“Shame too,” continued Adam, oblivious to Aziraphale’s musings. “Crow’s a genius on the guitar. Could probably make it big, if he just got the chance.”

Before Adam could elaborate, the door opened, and Crowley re-entered, visibly agitated.

“Sorry, dude,” said Adam, shrugging in sympathy.

Crowley spun around and punched a fist against the wall. “Fuck it!” he growled in frustration.

“Whoa, chill, Crowley. It’s just a play,” Michael tried to placate him.

Crowley took a few deep breaths, visibly battling to get his emotions under control. “I guess you’re right,” he said, voice tinged with resignation. “No point in doing anything just for fun, not while there’s business school to get into.” The bitterness in his voice made Aziraphale wince.

An uncomfortable silence followed this statement as Crowley unceremoniously swept Adam’s legs off the bed and sat down. “Listen, guys, we need to go find Az’s luggage so he can unpack, so unless you wanna help carry suitcases, scram. We’ll see you at dinner, okay?”

Crowley’s friends could take a hint, so they filed out of the room with various vague approximations of “see you later.”

When the door had swung shut behind them, Crowley flopped over on his stomach, buried his face in the pillows and let out a heartfelt groan. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this, so after fiddling nervously with his hands for a while, he got up and said, “I’ll just go get my stuff, then.”

Crowley lifted his face out of the pillow just enough to ask, “Need a hand?”

“No, it’s fine, I can manage,” Aziraphale responded, to which Crowley flopped back down dramatically with a muffled “’kay.”

Aziraphale regarded him for a moment, not sure whether to be amused or concerned, then hurried off to go get his things.

\---

Crowley lay in bed that night, replaying the events of the day in his head. Seeing his friends: good. Confrontation with his father: bad. New roommate: probably good? Poor guy had looked completely overwhelmed. Maybe Crowley shouldn’t have let Adam and the gang take over their room so abruptly – they were a bit much even for him, and he’d known them for years – but fuck, it was such a relief to have some enjoyable human interactions after the summer holidays. He was actually glad to be back at school – how absurd was that? St. Francis’ was a hell of stifling rules and unrelenting workload, but somehow it felt like a breath of fresh air after six weeks at home.

His thoughts circled back to the argument with his father. Why, why, why? The play was the one thing he’d been looking forward to this year. School was a convenient escape from home, but it wasn’t exactly fun. Music, on the other hand – music gave him joy like nothing else did, filled up places in him that were otherwise empty. He’d been looking forward to using the play as an excuse to sneak extra hours with his guitar. Now that chance was gone, and he knew Sanderson would be keeping an eye on him for his dad. Fuck.

He heard his roommate turn around in his bed, and realised that he’d been hearing the same every few minutes. On a whim, he turned to face the other boy and whispered, “You awake?”

“Yes” came the whispered reply, and then a sigh. “I can’t seem to fall asleep.” Aziraphale was lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling. His blonde curls looked even paler in the cold moonlight filtering through the curtain, almost glowing.

“Me neither,” admitted Crowley. “Touch of nerves?”

“I guess” sighed Aziraphale. “Your friends made it sound pretty tough here.”

“Well, it’s no walk in the park, but we’ve got a pretty good study system going. We all help each other. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.“

”I certainly hope so,” Aziraphale said. Crowley thought he sounded unconvinced.

“Trust me,” he reiterated. “You’ll be fine.” For some reason, it suddenly felt very important to reassure his new roommate.

Crowley flopped back onto his pillow and stared at the ceiling. A soft “thank you” came from the other bed. He tilted his head to look at his roommate, raised an eyebrow.

“What for?”

“Just – everything, I guess. I’m for al intents and purposes a complete stranger, and you’ve been nothing but kind.”

Crowley turned his head back with a snort. “I’m not kind, ask anyone. But we’re roommates. That’s kind of like a built-in friend, right?”

“I suppose” Crowley thought he could hear a smile. “Either way – thank you.”

“Sure,” mumbled Crowley, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

“Night,” he added, turning his back, and got a quiet “Sleep tight” in return. He lay on his side, staring at the wall, until he heard a soft snore from the other bed. Not long after, his own eyes slipped shut as sleep claimed him at last.


	2. September 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The school year starts, and our boys get to know each other a bit better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I have a habit of turning my favourite characters into history teachers, so that they can say profound and important things? Hmm, it looks like I do.

Aziraphale quickly discovered that Adam hadn’t been kidding about the workload at St. Francis’. Each new class piled on more textbooks, more homework, more assignments. Aziraphale felt like he was drowning in it, and they were only a few hours into the first day.

Maths was shaping up to be a nightmare; the work was complicated and there was a lot of it, and the teacher, Dr Uriel, looked merciless.

English looked tolerable; the curriculum for the final year seemed to be heavy on literature and poetry, which hardly seemed like work to him, although he was a bit nervous about the writing assignments, and on the verge of panicking about some oral recitation that the teacher had mentioned. Ms Tracy looked kind enough – she reminded him of his grandmother a bit, truth be told – but the thought of speaking in front of the whole class was terrifying.

He wasn’t yet sure what to think about science class – the teacher, Mr Pulsifer, had seemed at least as confused as the students. He was young, and his geeky black-framed glasses and tousled hair made him look even younger, so that it seemed almost as if he should be sitting in the classroom rather than standing in front. He’d dropped his chalk twice in the course of the first class, bumping his head on the desk once when he bent to retrieve it and dislodging his glasses in the process. It was almost comical. When he opened his mouth, it was clear that he knew his subject extremely well, but Aziraphale shuddered to think of the man handling dangerous chemicals in the practical classes; he’d have to make sure to pick a seat far away from the demonstration table. To his surprise, his new friends hadn’t made any jokes about the man’s clumsiness; they actually seemed rather fond of him.

The next class was history, and he followed his classmates to the correct classroom. The teacher – Dr Device, his memory supplied – was standing in the front of the classroom as they arrived, eyes shut, leaning back against her desk. The took their seats; somehow, Aziraphale had ended up in the front row, his least favourite place in the world. The hubbub gradually died down, and still Dr Device did not say a word, did not move a muscle. When a deathly hush had descended, and gone on just a smidgen too long for comfort, she opened her eyes, raised the piece of paper she had been holding, and proceeded to start reading in a monotone: “Time to have fun with history. Memorise these dates: 1862, 1543, 1622...” The boys looked at each other in bewilderment; one or two scrambled for a notebook.

Dr Device looked up at them, and burst out laughing. “Oh, your faces,” she said, wiping her eyes. The boys exchanged worried glances. Was the new history teacher a lunatic?

“No,” she said, regaining her composure. “History is not just a list of boring dates on which irrelevant things were done by long-dead people. History is the future. You, boy,” she said suddenly, pointing at Adam. “What’s your name?”

“Adam Young, ma’am.”

“Adam, I could hear your brain creak with the effort of not rolling your eyes. Would you like to tell us what you found so amusing?”

“I... I didn’t...” Adam stammered, blushing at being caught out.

“Come on,” said Dr Device, smiling. “I won’t bite your head off. Spit it out.”

“Well, ma’am,” Adam started, hesitantly. “You said history is the future. Which is... well, isn’t history by definition in the past? All those dead guys?”

“That depends on what definition you’re using,” Dr Device retorted gleefully. She picked up a piece of chalk and started writing on the blackboard: Those who cannot REMEMBER the past are condemned to REPEAT it. “George Santayana wrote that in 1905; Winston Churchill repeated the sentiment in his famous speech in 1948. You see, gentlemen, history has a tendency to cycle back again; the human race repeats the same mistakes over and over again. And why do we think that is?” She cast a glance over the room. “Anyone?”

Crowley piped up with a smirk, “Because people are idiots?”

“Close enough,” Dr Device replied with a grin; Crowley’s frank answer seemed to please her much as Adam’s had earlier. “You see, we spend all out time learning _about_ history, but not learning _from_ it. In this class, I’m not interested in seeing how well you can recite lists of dates and names and events; I want you to learn to _think_. Open your minds, and I promise you’ll never see history in the same way again.”

\---

At dinner that evening, the boys were discussing the events of the first day.

“What the hell is up with that math syllabus?” Brian complained. “I’m getting a headache just thinking about it.”

“At least the science doesn’t look too bad,” Crowley piped up. “Looks like Pulsifer’s just as scatter-brained as ever, so we can always spin that to our advantage if need be.”

“But seriously, guys,” Adam cut in, “What do we think of the new history teacher?”

“She’s insane,” opined Michael.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” teased Crowley.

“Well, yeah,” said Michael, looking a bit offended. “How are we supposed to get good grades if she’s not gonna be asking us for facts?”

“Oh, come on, Mike, loosen up,” said Adam. “At least she might spice things up a bit. And all this thinking for yourself malarkey – hey, if she wants to give us credit for obnoxiously stating our opinions, I’m all for that!”

The group laughed at that – they all knew Adam had plenty of strong opinions that he liked to share on every occasion. Thus far, it hadn’t exactly endeared him to his teachers.

Aziraphale sat listening in amusement as the conversation jumped around the table. Crowley had insisted that he sit with him and his friends at dinner, said he was one of them now. Aziraphale had been surprised at this – he had never been so quickly or completely welcomed into a group of people before. So while he didn’t take part in the conversation, he enjoyed listening to their banter.

“Az, are you joining us in the library tonight? We’re getting started on the English assignments,” Brian asked.

Aziraphale was caught off guard, being addressed directly. “Uh, sure. Okay.” Being invited was a good thing, right?

\---

“Ohhhhh-kay, let’s see,” drawled Adam, reading from the handout they’d gotten in class. “Shakespeare today,” A collective groan sounded around the table. “Select one of the following Shakespeare plays. Outline the plot using the following method... blah, blah, blah, et cetera, et cetera... Discuss in what ways the themes touched on in the play are relevant to life in the 20th century. Use examples from history, current events and/or your own experiences to illustrate.” Adam put the paper down.

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.” Brian exclaimed. “In what way is Shakespeare relevant to my life? I can’t even understand half of what he’s saying.”

“Oh, no, no, you’re wrong!” Aziraphale exclaimed, then blushed as four pairs of eyes turned to him. “I just mean, well, if you can get past the language, Shakespeare’s stories are pretty timeless. Forbidden romance, political intrigue, hilarious misunderstandings, foul murders, dirty jokes – it’s all there.”

“You some sort of theatre nerd?” asked Michael, eyeing him sceptically.

“Oh, gosh, no; I just like to read.”

“Well, that settles it, then,” Adam said in his chairman voice. “Az is our literature expert. Now pick your plays so we can get this show on the road.”

Everyone bent to their work, looking through the list of plays and wandering off among the library shelves to look for the books they needed. Crowley nudged Aziraphale with his elbow. “See?” he whispered, soft enough that only Aziraphale could hear him. “I told you you’d be fine.” He gave Aziraphale a lopsided smile, which he returned with a soft “thank you.” As he turned his attention to his work, he felt a warmth blooming in his chest. He spent the rest of the evening losing himself in Hamlet (not that he needed to; he almost knew the play by heart) and occasionally interpreting some Shakespearean or discussing ideas with his new friends.

That night, when he got into bed, it was with a smile in his heart, and he had no trouble at all falling asleep.

\---

Days and weeks passed, as they do, and Aziraphale felt like he was starting to find his feet. His new group of friends now treated him like he’d always been part of the gang, and him and Crowley were becoming fast friends. He wondered if it was inevitable that two people who shared a living space would become close, or if the rapport between him and Crowley was as unusual as it felt to him. He didn’t have much experience with friendship, truth be told, but he found that he was loving it. Crowley wasn’t the kind of person he’d ever have considered befriending if the luck of the draw hadn’t thrown them together; he was too much of a contrast to his own bookish, unobtrusive personality. Crowley cursed, and smoked cigarettes out the window of their room, and swaggered around as if he owned the place. All traits that would have appalled Aziraphale, had you asked him a month earlier. And yet, he’d found himself drawn into Crowley’s orbit. For his part, the redheaded boy had taken Aziraphale under his wing from day one, betraying a kind heart that his whole cool-dude attitude could not quite hide.

On the first Saturday of the term, Crowley dragged Aziraphale out to Tadfield proper. Aziraphale hadn’t particularly wanted to go, but Crowley was relentless. “Come on, this is the only Saturday morning this month that we don’t have any school stuff to attend, the rest of the guys have soccer practice, and I don’t want to go alone.” So Aziraphale relented and tagged along.

Once they got to town, Crowley made a beeline for the music store. Aziraphale looked through tapes with him, feigning polite interest, but he’d never heard of any of these groups. He pointed at one tape that reminded him of the poster on Crowley’s pinboard.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“Seriously?” asked Crowley, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “You don’t know Queen?”

“No, my parents never had anything more modern than Gershwin in the house. I don’t know any of this... this... bebop stuff.” 

Crowley snorted a laugh. “Bebop? Jesus, Az, you don’t have any idea, do you?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he’d said to merit that reaction, but before he could ask, Crowley continued, “Clearly, it’s up to me to introduce you to some decent music. When we get back to school, you’re listening to some proper rock music with me. Trust me, you’ll never look back.” Crowley winked as he placed a couple of tapes on the checkout counter.

After the music store, they bought an ice-cream from a street vendor and wandered down the main street, just enjoying their freedom, not in any particular hurry to get back to school. They passed a second-hand bookstore, and Aziraphale insisted on going in, where he promptly spent almost an hour losing himself old poetry anthologies. Crowley wasn’t a big reader, but he’d noticed that his roommate always seemed to have his nose in a book; clearly, it was something he loved.

Aziraphale was so obviously enchanted by what he was reading that Crowley couldn’t bring himself to hurry him along, so he contented himself with sitting cross-legged on the floor and paging through a stack of old comic books. After a while, his spine started protesting at the uncomfortable position, and he rolled his neck to relieve the tension, stretching his arms over his head. He looked up to see what Aziraphale was doing, and his breath almost caught in his throat. Aziraphale was clearly lost in the poetry, his eyes shining with emotion, lips moving silently as he read to himself. He was standing in front of a window, and the sunlight pouring in behind him seemed to make his blonde curls glow like a halo. “Well, don’t you just look like an angel,” Crowley murmured to himself, smiling stupidly.

“Hmm? Did you say something?” Aziraphale said, eyes flitting to Crowley.

“No, nothing,” answered Crowley, looking down and suddenly feeling unaccountably embarrassed. Where had that thought come from? He stood up, shaking his head and making a face as his lower back protested. “Come on, let’s go or we’ll be late for dinner,” He said to Aziraphale.

Crowley took the book Aziraphale had been reading and placed it on the counter, pulling out his wallet. “I’m teaching you music, you can teach me poetry,” he said, silencing Aziraphale’s protests.

What he didn’t say, even to himself, was that he wanted to watch Aziraphale reading poetry again – wanted to see his eyes dance and his face soften with the beauty of it. The implications of that admission were a bit too scary to contemplate right now.

See, the problem wasn’t that Crowley found him beautiful. That was old news – he’d always been able to appreciate a pretty face, regardless of whether it came in skirts or trousers, so to speak. No, the problem was that Aziraphale was his roommate, which meant that they were constantly in each other’s company, and even knowing him only a week, Crowley found that he liked him very much. To be fair, he thought it might be impossible not to like Aziraphale – he was just so soft and kind. But the combination of Aziraphale’s likeability, attractiveness and proximity could well shape up to be a whole new problem.

Later that afternoon, when they were lounging around in their room, Crowley made good on his promise to broaden Aziraphale’s musical horizons. Crowley had a Sony Walkman – radios were banned in the dorms because they were considered too noisy – but he’d unfastened the earpieces from the headphones so that they each had one speaker to listen from. They still had to press the speakers against their ears, since they weren’t very loud, and the cord wasn’t very long, so they ended up half-lying next to each other on Crowley’s bed, pillows piled up against the wall behind them.

“Okay, we’ll start with Queen,” said Crowley. “No-one should be alive in this decade and not know Queen.” He rewound to the start of the tape, pressed play, and settled back to listen.

“This one is called Bohemian Rhapsody,” Crowley said, and launched into an explanation of the song, the band, Freddie Mercury and assorted other music trivia. Aziraphale was surprised at his friend’s enthusiasm; he hadn’t seen Crowley so excited about anything else in the week he’d known him.

At the end of the song, Crowley pressed pause and turned to Aziraphale. “So, what do you think?” he asked.

“It’s... different, that’s for sure,” said Aziraphale carefully, not yet sure if he liked it. Crowley just gave him a lopsided smile, pressed play again, and settled back to listen with his eyes closed.

They listened in silence, mostly, apart from a short debate about the intellectual capacity of rock musicians during a particularly ridiculous song about fat-bottomed girls (reprised when the next song extolled the virtues of riding a bicycle). Eventually the tape reached its end and clicked off, and Aziraphale turned to Crowley to deliver his opinion. Before he could open his mouth, he saw that Crowley had fallen asleep, the little speaker lying next to his pillow. He smiled fondly, wondering how anyone could fall asleep with that music blaring in their ears.

He gathered up the Walkman and tapes, stashed them safely in Crowley’s desk drawer, and settled back on his own bed with his new book. Yes, he thought to himself, he could get used to this easy sort of friendship.

\---

Of course, school still had its fair share of bad parts. Inevitable, really. Take one day in maths class. Dr Uriel had scribbled some incomprehensibly complicated trig equation on the chalkboard, and Aziraphale was hastily copying it down, already certain he’d need at least ten minutes’ explanation from Wensley to make any sense of it. Then, horror of horrors, the teacher turned to the class and said, “Who can explain the solution to this problem? Mr Felton?” she fixed Aziraphale with a piercing stare.

“Um – um – I – “ Aziraphale stuttered, not even knowing where to start. He felt his face redden as every eye in the class turned to him, and he couldn’t get another word out.

“Well?” snapped Dr Uriel, “Can you solve it, or can’t you?”

“No,” he whispered, eyes fixed on his desk.

“Figures,” the teacher huffed. “Looks like your brother got all the brains in the family.”

Fortunately, she decided to switch targets. “Mr Young, care to help your friend out?” As Adam launched into an unnecessarily long and rambling explanation of the problem (“kindly get to the point, Mr Young!”), Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut, swallowing against the burning humiliation in his throat. Had he looked up, though, he may have been surprised at the murderous glares his friends were shooting the teacher.

Aziraphale sighed in relief when the bell rang a few minutes later, signalling the end of class. He grabbed his bag, shoving his books inside haphazardly, and headed for the door without looking up. He was stopped by a hand curling around his arm from behind.

“Hey, you okay?” came Crowley’s voice – soft enough that no-one else could hear.

“Yeah, just... need to use the bathroom before we head to English.” He pulled away from Crowley and ducked into a restroom, not wanting his friend to see the state he was in. He hid out in the stall for a minute, breathing deeply and willing himself to calm down, before hoisting up his bag and heading to the next class.

\---

Crowley was concerned for his roommate. He’d clearly been upset by Uriel’s tirade, however hard he was trying to hide it. But Aziraphale had made it pretty clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, so Crowley shrugged and headed to the next class, figuring it would be rude to press the issue.

It didn’t stop bugging him, though. That afternoon, he was lying on his bead, ostensibly reading through his history homework but really watching Aziraphale as he worked at his desk.

Suddenly, Aziraphale put his pen down and demanded “What?” in an exasperated tone of voice.

“What what?” retorted Crowley, feigning innocence – clearly, he was not as subtle as he’d thought.

“You’re staring at me, Crowley,” Aziraphale pointed out as he fixed Crowley with a glare.

“Okay, okay,” Crowley relented. “You’re right. I’m just... still wondering if you’re okay.”

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Aziraphale turned back to his desk, fiddling with his pen.

“Oh _puh-lease_ ,” said Crowley, “You haven’t spoken two sentences to me all afternoon, you hardly ate at lunch, and you’ve been staring at the same page in that book for the last twelve minutes, by my watch. That does _not_ look like okay to me.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply to that, just turned his face away. Crowley could guess why – he was embarrassed.

“Hey,” he said, gently. “What’s up? Is it about what happened with Uriel?”

Aziraphale nodded, then shook his head. “It’s stupid, I know – getting all upset over one mean comment. I should be used to it by now, being Gabriel’s useless little brother. But –“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Crowley cut him off. “Okay, first of all, there’s nothing stupid about getting upset. That, that... bitch... was being cruel, and quite frankly, if one of the boys said something like that, I’d probably have punched them.”

Aziraphale huffed out a little laugh at this, clearly amused at the idea of Crowley punching someone, and Crowley joined with a self-deprecating giggle “Yeah, I know, with my weedy arms I’d probably get my arse kicked for my trouble. Would still do it, though.”

He turned serious again, moved over to Aziraphale’s bed and placed a hand on his arm. “But listen to me, Az: never, ever call yourself useless again, okay. For the record, your brother was a first-class prick, so I for one am very glad you’re nothing like him. Look at me,” he said, giving Aziraphale’s arm a little shake and waiting for him to make eye contact. He noticed the tears pooling in his friend’s eyes and felt his own heart clench in sympathy.

“We’ve been sharing a room for a few weeks now, right, so I think I’ve gotten to know you at least a bit. And you’re one of the kindest and cleverest people I’ve ever met. So don’t let anyone, ever, tell you you’re not good enough, okay?”

Aziraphale managed a watery smile at this; he didn’t say anything, but he nodded and dropped his gaze. Crowley wanted to reach out and hug him, but he wasn’t sure if it would be welcome, so he just squeezed his friend’s arm and retreated to his own bed, buried his nose in his textbook.

After a while, he heard Aziraphale start to hum in that absentminded way he did when he got lost in concentration, and he smiled to himself. _Mission accomplished_ , he thought. _At least for now_.


	3. October 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's rock and roll, baby!

Aziraphale was surprised to find their bedroom dark when he returned from the library one night. Was Crowley asleep already? Unlikely, he thought; Crowley was something of a night owl. A quick peek in the door confirmed that the room was empty. He knew Crowley wasn’t in the library, and his shower bag was still in the room so that wasn’t it either. So where was he?

Aziraphale saw that Adam and Brian’s light was on, so he popped his head in the door. “Hey guys, do you know where Crowley is?”

“Nope, haven’t seen him since supper,” Brian said, not looking up from the comic book he was reading.

“Try the music rooms,” suggested Adam. “Sometimes he hides in there when he gets tired of us.”

Aziraphale thanked him and set off in that direction.

Adam had been on the money – he found Crowley in one of the soundproofed practice rooms, bent over his guitar. No sound escaped from the room, but Aziraphale could see Crowley through the small window in the door. He was sitting half-turned away, eyes closed in concentration he sang along to what he was playing. He seemed... happy. Happier than he usually did, at least. Aziraphale thought that Crowley always seemed a little tense, even when he was asleep – as if he were always waiting for a blow to come from some previously unguessable direction. Now, however, there was no trace of it in the line of his shoulders, the crease of his brow. He seemed to be lost in the music, swaying his head and smiling as he played. Aziraphale smiled. He thought Crowley looked... strangely beautiful like that.

Blushing at that thought, and realising that he had been staring for perhaps longer than could be considered polite, he knocked sharply on the door. The sudden sound startled Crowley, and he nearly fell off his chair. Aziraphale chuckled as he pushed open the door.

“Jesus, Az, nearly gave me a heart attack!” Crowley admonished, also starting to laugh.

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale. “It’s almost lights out. Thought I’d better come find you before one of the teachers did.”

“Thanks,” said Crowley, putting the guitar in its case and snapping it shut. He hauled the case onto his shoulder and followed Aziraphale out into the hallway.

As they made their way to their room, Aziraphale remarked, “You know, we’ve been sharing a room for, what, a month now, and I’ve never heard you play that thing.”

“Eh, you’re not missing much,” Crowley said dismissively.

_Doubtful_ , Aziraphale thought to himself; he’d heard Adam’s opinions on the matter. Out loud, he said, “I was just wondering why you never play in the room.”

“Oh, that. School rules – no disturbing the other inmates. Or bringing any joy to their dreary lives.” Crowley grinned at his own joke.

“Well, isn’t that a pity,” Aziraphale said. He meant it, too – he really wanted to hear Crowley play. He couldn’t forget the way Crowley had looked, caught up in his music, just a few minutes ago. He was curious to know what exactly could provoke such a reaction in his friend, and more than a little eager to see it again.

“Tell you what,” Crowley’s voice interrupted his musings. “Come down to the practice rooms with me some time, and I’ll play for you.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley smirked in response. “Just don’t get your hopes up for a virtuoso performance.”

They’d reached their room, and Crowley slid his guitar case into its accustomed place under his bed. “I’m gonna take a shower before lights out,” said Crowley, grabbing his bathroom bag and towel, and heading out the door.

\---

Crowley stood in the shower, turning his face into the slightly-too-hot water.

_Shit, shit, shit,_ he thought to himself _. You’re a fucking idiot, Crowley._ Why had he done that? The potential for embarrassment was... he shivered, despite the heat of the shower.

It wasn’t that he was shy to perform – all his friends had heard him play before; he’d been about to perform in the school play, for fuck’s sake. But the thought of playing for Aziraphale, just the two of them alone in a tiny practice room – the thought of those blue-grey-green eyes boring into him while he tried to remember how his fingers worked...

_Fuck,_ he thought, _I’m in trouble, aren’t I?_

\---

A few days later, Crowley burst into the room, waving a copy of the Tadfield Advertiser.

“Look at this!” he shouted excitedly, throwing the newspaper at Aziraphale.

“Church fete? Mayor opens old-age home?” Aziraphale read the headlines out loud, thoroughly confused. 

“No, silly, other side!” said Crowley, grabbing the paper and flipping it over.

“Rocktober Music Fest,” read Aziraphale, understanding dawning. “It’s a rock music show?”

“Yes! My cousin Bea knows one of the bands, she got me two tickets with backstage passes!”

“Wow, that sounds great!” said Aziraphale. At least, he thought it sounded great for Crowley – exactly the sort of thing he’d enjoy. He was not so sure if he shared that sentiment, but to each his own.

“So, will you come?” Crowley insisted.

“What?” responded Aziraphale. He hadn’t thought he’d be going along.

“I have two passes. Do you wanna come with me?”

“Um, I don’t know.... Are you sure? It’s not exactly my scene, is it?”

Crowley’s face fell at Aziraphale’s words, so Aziraphale hastened to clarify: “I just mean, well, I know nothing about this sort of music. You of all people should know that! Wouldn’t you rather take someone who can at least talk music with you? I wouldn’t want to spoil your evening being all boring.”

“Are you kidding?” said Crowley, incredulity lining his voice. “You’re my best friend, why wouldn’t I want you to come?”

“Best... best friend?” Aziraphale stammered. That was unexpected. He’d never been anyone’s best friend – never even had anyone even call him a friend, really.

“Yeah, ‘course you are,” said Crowley, as if it was the most self-evident thing in the world. “So come on, what do you say?”

“Okay,” said Aziraphale, breaking out in a smile. “If you’re sure, I’d love to.”

“It’s a date, then,” said Crowley with a wink, and turned to go out again, “I better go phone Bea to confirm.”

_A date?_ Thought Aziraphale to himself as Crowley left. Did Crowley know what he just said? Aziraphale would bet that he didn’t – it was just Crowley’s way of speaking. But still, he hoped no-one heard that. He wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about his best friend.

_Best friend_ , he thought again with a smile, and felt a warm happiness fill his chest. What a lovely thing to have.

\---

“No, no, no,” said Crowley, regarding Aziraphale critically. “You can _not_ wear _that_ to a rock concert.”

It was the afternoon of the music fest, about ten minutes before they were supposed to leave, and Crowley was regarding Aziraphale critically.

“But this is what I always wear.” Aziraphale protested, looking down at his tan trousers and light blue button-down.

Crowley was dressed in faded jeans that looked far too tight to be comfortable, a black t-shirt with a Queen logo on it, and his leather jacket. Even Aziraphale had to admit that the contrast was stark.

Crowley, meanwhile, had started riffling through Aziraphale’s wardrobe. “Here, put these on,” he said, throwing a pair of jeans at Aziraphale. “Who would have thought you even own jeans?” Crowley muttered to himself, and Aziraphale blushed. “What size shoes do you wear?”

“Ten,” Aziraphale answered, confused. What was wrong with his shoes? 

“You can wear my Converse then; they’re an eleven, but if you wear thick socks you should be okay. I’m going to go find you a proper shirt to borrow.” And with that he bounded out of the room.

He returned a few minutes later with a navy blue and black check flannel shirt.

“Best I could do. At least it’s dark. It’s Brian’s so it might be a tight fit, but you can wear it open over a t-shirt.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but complied – this was Crowley’s world, after all, so Aziraphale would defer to his expertise. He glanced at himself in the mirror.

“I look ridiculous,” he said, turning to Crowley. Crowley was staring at him, mouth slightly agape.

“Ngk. Uhmn. No, no, you look... fine.”

“Thank you for that enthusiastic commendation,” said Aziraphale drily. “But at least I won’t embarrass you by looking like your grandfather.”

“You’d never embarrass me,” retorted Crowley, suddenly earnest. “I like the way you dress normally; it suits you. Just didn’t want you feeling out of place, is all.” he continued, suddenly sounding a bit embarrassed.

He wasn’t alone in that; Aziraphale was feeling a bit flustered himself, hearing Crowley complimenting his sartorial choices. “Well, I think the way you’re dressed suits you too. Very... punk rock.”

Crowley burst out laughing at this. “Punk rock? Like you’d know what punk rock looks like, angel.”

“Wha-?” said Aziraphale. “Angel?”

“Shit, did I say that out loud?” said Crowley, turning bright red. “You just... look like an angel, don’t you, with your pale clothes and your curls and all. And you’re so innocent. Just like an angel. Oh God, I’m embarrassing you. I’m embarrassing myself. Gonna stop talking now. Yup, shutting up right now. Mngk.” Crowley turned away, his lips pressed tightly together.

Aziraphale was amused at his friend’s discomfort, but he decided to have mercy on him and put him out of his misery. “Well, I suppose there are worse things to be compared to,” he said, and turned a teasing look on Crowley. “Does that make you a demon, then? Corrupting me with your dark clothes and foul language and rock music.”

Crowley had regained his usual grin by the end of that sentence. “Works for me,” he said, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto his head. “Shall we? Bea will be here to pick us up any minute.”

\---

Bea turned out to be the strangest person Aziraphale had even met. She was short – a good head shorter than Aziraphale – but had so much sullen energy that she somehow seemed to loom over him. She was dressed in a grungier version of Crowley’s outfit, all ripped jeans and studded leather, her black hair cropped short and sticking up every which way.

Bea didn’t bother to get out of her car, a beat-up red Volkswagen Beetle; just leaned out the window and gestured for them to get in. They threw their bags into the back seat – Crowley had arranged for them to stay over at Bea’s place rather than trying to get back to school before curfew – and Aziraphale crawled in after them. Crowley took the front passenger seat.

Bea turned around in her seat and regarded Aziraphale critically. “So you’re my cousin’s new roomie?” she said.

“Yes, sorry, I’m Aziraphale.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Bea, still giving him a blank look. Aziraphale squirmed internally; he had the distinct impression he was being weighed up.

Then Bea shrugged and stuck a hand into her jacket pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?” she asked. Aziraphale declined, but Crowley took two, lighting one each for him and Bea. After taking a long drag, Bea put the car into gear and took off. 

Aziraphale was feeling out of place, like he always did among strangers, so he resorted to making small talk. “So, Crowley tells me you’re friends with one of the bands?”

“Yeah,” Bea said. “My boyfriend Luke’s the lead for MorningStar.”

Aziraphale nodded, as if he had any idea who MorningStar was.

“Luke and Bea go to Tadfield Comp,” Crowley explained, sensing that Aziraphale could use a bit of context. “They’re seniors, same as us.”

“Yeah, except some of us poor plebs don’t get to go to the posh private school,” Bea teased without rancour.

“Oh come off it,” Crowley retorted easily. “That posh private school is just hell in a pretty building, and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah, poor little rich kid,” Bea smirked, and Crowley punched her mockingly on the shoulder.

Aziraphale settled back in his seat, content to listen to their easy banter. He had never had that sort of relationship with his family, and it fascinated him.

It wasn’t long before they reached the concert venue; a makeshift stage set up in a field a few miles outside town. The stage was still empty, save for a few roadies who were setting up speakers and testing the sound.

“Well, I’m off to find my guy,” said Bea as they reached the field. “Meet at the backstage entrance after MorningStar’s performance, yeah?”

“Sure,” answered Crowley.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Bea called out as she walked off.

“That seems like it would leave us free to do just about anything,” remarked Aziraphale with a smile.

“Yeah, except maybe being nice,” Crowley said with smirk. “So watch your step, angel!”

“Oh ha ha, very funny,” said Aziraphale, blushing slightly at the new nickname. “She is, though. Nice, I mean. In her own strange way,” said Aziraphale, gesturing to Bea’s disappearing form.

“Yeah, she’s a good one,” said Crowley. “We’ve always been close. Her mum’s the black sheep of the family – got pregnant with Bea at seventeen, refused to marry the asshole father, raised Bea by herself. Aunt Lil is a force of nature. My grandparents still won’t talk to her. Anyway, it makes Bea... non-judgemental, know what I mean? She’s just herself, full of shit as you can see, just lets me be me. It’s refreshing.”

“I can see how it would be,” Aziraphale agreed.

“C’mon,” said Crowley, turning toward the refreshment stands. “Let’s go get a drink before the music starts.”

He sauntered off, and Aziraphale followed.

“What do you want?” He asked as they approached the vendors. “Beer?”

“Um, I’ve never actually had beer before,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Of course you haven’t,” Crowley chuckled. “You’re an angel, how could I forget.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes; clearly, Crowley was committed to the angel joke.

Crowley ordered a beer for himself, then passed the plastic cup to Aziraphale.

“Here, taste,” he said.

Aziraphale took a sip, and made a face. “I think not,” he said. “Far too bitter.”

“I have just the thing,” said Crowley, turning back to the vendor and asking for a can of Sprite and an extra cup. He poured half the beer into the empty cup, then shared the Sprite between the two drinks.

“There you go: beer shandy.”

Aziraphale took a tentative sip. “Much better,” he said, smiling at Crowley gratefully.

“Good,” said Crowley. “Now, let’s find something to eat. Booze on an empty stomach will go straight to your head.”

\---

By the time the sun had set, they had shared another beer (with Sprite, of course) and Aziraphale was feeling comfortably relaxed. The bands on stage were giving it their all, and much to his surprise, he found that he was enjoying himself. The current band had just finished their last song, and the MC was announcing that MorningStar was up next.

“Come on,” Crowley said, grabbing Aziraphale by the arm and dragging him toward the stage. “I wanna get right up front. Moral support and all that.”

Aziraphale followed, helpless to do anything else.

The crowd was thick in front of the stage, and Aziraphale feared he’d lose track of Crowley amidst the throng of writhing bodies, so he grabbed onto Crowley’s arm from behind and held on tight. Crowley flashed him a smile over his shoulder, then continued to push his way through the crowd until he found a spot right in front of the centre of the stage.

The first song started with an energetic riff on the lead guitar, followed by a crash of drums and a wild whoop from the audience. The song had an addictive beat, and Aziraphale soon found himself bopping up and down in time with it.

He sneaked a look at Crowley: he had his eyes closed, hands in the air, and was dancing along to the beat in a way that suggested he was completely unaware of the mass of people around him. His face wore the same expression as when he was playing guitar.

Aziraphale smiled, and turned his attention back to the stage. Pretty soon he was bouncing around with the rest of the crowd, losing himself in the rhythm of song after song, not even realising how sweaty and out of breath he was getting.

\--

Crowley was having the time of his life. The music was pretty good, considering that the bands were mostly unknown, and he was enjoying the dancing (if you could call it dancing). Best of all, he was sharing it with his best friend.

He’d been worried that Aziraphale wouldn’t enjoy the evening, it being so far out of his comfort zone, but he’d surprised Crowley by taking to it like a duck to water. At the moment he was happily bopping along next to Crowley, bumping into him every so often, and looking utterly content. Could it be more perfect?

Turns out, it could.

As the song wound down, Luke took the mic and announced that they’d come to the end of their set, which elicited a boo from the crowd.

He started the final song; a slow, sad melody that was very unlike the fast-paced numbers they’d played before. The audience swayed along to the mournful ballad, friends and strangers alike placing their arms across each other’s shoulders.

Crowley, of course, wasted no time pulling Aziraphale close under his arm, delighting in the feel of his friend’s arm settling around his waist. It meant nothing, of course – both of them had their other arms around complete strangers – but that didn’t stop Crowley’s heart from beating in double time at the feeling of Aziraphale’s warm body pressed against him. He closed his eyes, memorising every sensation, willing the moment not to end.

It did, of course; the passage of time is cruel and implacable. They awkwardly disentangled themselves from the strangers on either side, but Crowley hung on to Aziraphale just a little bit longer, wanting to keep him there, wishing that this was something he was allowed to do. He knew Aziraphale would start getting uncomfortable soon, though, so he dropped his arm and settled instead for grabbing hold of Aziraphale’s wrist. “Come on,” he half-shouted over the noise of the crowd. “Let’s go find Bea.”

\---

When Bea saw them approaching, she cried out “Crowley!” waving with the hand holding a cup of beer and spilling half of it in the process; her other arm was wrapped around Luke.

As they got near, Luke held up a fist, and Crowley greeted him with a fist bump. “So this is my little Bea’s favourite cousin? Good to finally meet you!” said Luke with a friendly smile, while Bea jabbed an elbow at him with an “Oi, not so much on the little!”

He laughed and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “You know what I say, baby – the best things come in small packages,” he said, placatingly, earning him a smile and a kiss.

Crowley cleared his throat pointedly as the kiss got progressively more heated.

“Sorry, sorry,” Luke laughed. “Can’t help myself.” He planted a last peck on Bea’s nose, then turned to Aziraphale and Crowley. “Wanna come meet the band?”

“Hell yeah!” said Crowley enthusiastically, and they followed Luke into the backstage area.

Luke introduced them to his bandmates, Harry (bass), Liam (guitar and backing vocals) and Damon (drums).

Crowley’s eye strayed to the open guitar case lying next to Liam, and his eyes grew wide.

“Holy shit, is that a vintage Les Paul?” he said, walking over to the burnished copper guitar.

“Yep,” said Liam proudly, clearly pleased that Crowley was impressed with his gear. “She’s my baby. I’ve tried a whole bunch of others, but I keep coming back to her.”

“’course you do,” said Crowley, running an appreciative hand over the smooth wood of the body. “If she’s good enough for Page and Plant, she’s good enough for anyone.” 

“Do you play?” asked Liam, gratified by Crowley’s interest.

“A little,” said Crowley dismissively.

Bea, who’d been following the conversation, snorted at this. “Don’t let him fool you, he’s fucking brilliant. Just needs to get a decent guitar. Has this stupid old acoustic thing, but boy, he can make it sit up and beg.”

“Shut up,” said Crowley, flustered at the praise.

“Wanna try her?” Liam offered.

“Are you serious?” spluttered Crowley. “Yeah, fuck, I’d love to. Never played on an electric before.”

Aziraphale realised then that he still hadn’t heard Crowley play, and he leaned in, curious, as they connected the guitar to an amp.

“So, what do you want? Some Led Zep?” suggested Crowley, and this was met with a round of affirmative noises. He started picking out a tune Aziraphale had never heard. It was a simple melody, but strangely haunting. After a few more bars, Crowley started singing along, crooning out a song about some lady looking for a stairway to heaven. Aziraphale thought it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever heard.

After a minute or so of singing, Crowley suddenly seemed to remember that he was surrounded by people, and stopped playing, blushing awkwardly.

“Well, I can see why you love her,” he said, handing the guitar back to Liam, who was eyeing him incredulously.

“Are you sure you’ve never played electric before? That was fucking beautiful,” he said. Then he seemed to make up his mind over something. “Listen, I’ve got an extra guitar lying around if you want to borrow it. That talent shouldn’t be left to go to waste.”

“Are you serious?” said Crowley.

“Yeah. I told you, I’ve tried so many other guitars, but they just don’t hold a candle to my leading lady. I’ll have Bea drop it off for you, yeah?”

“That’s... that’s fucking amazing, man. I don’t know how to thank you!” spluttered Crowley.

“You’ll need an amp too,” Luke interjected. “I’m gonna guess you don’t have one? Thought so,” he said as Crowley shook his head. “I’ll send you one of my old practice amps with Bea. Doesn’t have enough volume to play with the drums, so I never use it anymore, but it’s perfect if you’re playing by yourself.”

Crowley was speechless at this display of generosity. “Seriously, guys, I don’t know what to say. That’s... fuck...”

Luke burst out laughing. “Tell you what. Spend some time learning that thing, then you come jam with us. Maybe you have some useful input to our music, and we can get some return on our investment that way. And if not, well, we’ll just enjoy being amused.”

Crowley beamed at this, and just shook his head eagerly. “Yeah, that’s... perfect.”

They spent a couple of hours backstage, laughing and chatting with the band. Once again, Aziraphale was amazed at the comfortable rapport shared by a group of friends. There were plenty of jabs and teasing insults being thrown around, but it was clear that there were no actual bad feelings. He found himself relaxing and just enjoying himself, fitting in with a group of people he would never even have talked to before.

His mind strayed briefly to his parents and Gabriel, imagining what they’d think of this crowd. He didn’t have to wonder very hard: they’d certainly disapprove, and vehemently; his father considered rock music to be the work of the devil and those who make it to be the very incarnation of evil. How ironic, then, that he’d found more genuine kindness and acceptance in this group than he’d ever found in the pious circles his family moved in. He could only shake his head at the contrast.

Before they knew it, the last band was wrapping up and it was time to go. Bea swayed a little as she got up.

“Shite,” she said. “Those last three beers may have been a mistake. You drive,” she said, tossing her car keys to Crowley, “if you don’t want us to end up wrapped around a tree.”

Luke helped them to the car, depositing Bea in the backseat with a filthy open-mouthed kiss. He greeted Crowley and Aziraphale with a fist bump and a “see you again soon,” and headed back to the stage area, presumably to get his gear.

Aziraphale settled into the passenger seat as Crowley turned the key in the ignition. He pulled away at a speed that had Aziraphale gasping – how could this old beater even move so fast? Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Bea’s drunk driving may not have been better. He quickly decided that it would be easiest to just close his eyes and pray they make it to their destination in one piece.

Fortunately, they got to Bea’s place without incident. Bea had fallen asleep by the time they arrived, and they had to wrangle her out of the back seat and up to her room.

Aziraphale watched fondly as Crowley forced his cousin to drink a big glass of water, then tucked her into bed with a kiss on the temple and a whispered “sweet dreams, baby Bee”. Who would have guessed that his best friend was capable of such tenderness?

Aziraphale felt fortunate to have seen what Crowley was like outside of school, and he found it just made him like his roommate more. The two boys flopped down on sleeping bags on Bea’s bedroom floor, and before long they were all snoring contentedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn;t clear MorningStar is the demon crew - Hastur, Ligur, Dagon and Lucifer himself as front man.
> 
> In case you didn't know, Jimmy Page and Robert Plant the front men of Led Zeppelin. [Here](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/88/2d/b7/882db75e1d3a012c501168a8c85b7790.jpg)'s a photo of Page playing his gorgeous Gibson Les Paul.


	4. November 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Aziraphale's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allyangel, this chapter is especially for you, dear 😜

As the school term went on, the boys settled into a comfortable rhythm of homework and studying, stealing as much time to relax on the weekends as they could. Maths hadn’t gotten any less overwhelming, but science and English were not too bad.

The highlight of their timetable, however, was undeniably history. On one gloomy Monday, their lesson had turned into a spirited debate on when, if ever, declaring war was the right thing to do. It ended in Dr Device announcing that they would have to watch some war films to get a true taste of the reality of war.

“We are fortunate, being born as late as we were. We never had to fight for our lives in a foxhole, hack our way through enemy-infested jungles, cower in a bomb shelter during the Blitz,” she had explained. “But that also means we have no true understanding of the realities of war. Books, poetry, films – these are the closest we’ll ever get to that experience. At least, I sincerely hope so.” A laugh from the class.

“So, I’ll organise the films,” this was met with a cheer, “and I expect a paper from each of you on the film of your choice.” This was met with a groan.

“Now, now, I don’t expect you to do a film analysis. I want an overview of the historic event, your opinion on whether the film treated it fairly, and an explanation on what it contributes to our discussion on declaring war. The film festival will be in... let’s see... four or five weeks, once exams are done. If you have any suggestions for films, let me know.”

\---

It was a Saturday afternoon in mid-November, and Crowley was holed up in one of the music rooms. Bea had delivered the promised guitar Friday after school, and Crowley had spent most of his waking hours since then getting to know the instrument. Luke, bless his soul, had also sent a stack of papers that turned out to be guitar tabs and chord sheets for a pretty great selection of rock music. Crowley had been happily playing his way through them, thrilled to learn some new songs that he’d never been able to figure out before.

Currently, the guitar solo in the middle of Bohemian Rhapsody was giving him a world of trouble. _Brian May has got to be the most underappreciated guitarist out there,_ he thought to himself as he stretched his arms out over his head. _How does he even play this stuff?_

His eye happened to catch the clock on the wall, and he swore under his breath. Not only had he played right through lunch, he was five minutes from missing supper. He hurriedly packed up the guitar in its case, deciding he’d come fetch it after supper, and rushed to the dining hall.

“Where have you been all day?” asked Adam, sitting down next to him at the table. “Got a secret girlfriend?”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Crowley lightly, slapping Adam on the shoulder. “You know I got that new guitar. She’s the only girl I’m interested in. I’ve been spending the day appreciating her properly.”

Adam laughed at that. “I swear, for all your swagger, you’re the biggest bloody virgin I know.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue at Adam.

Then he realised that something was missing. Or rather, someone.

“Where’s Az?” he asked to the group in general.

Adam shrugged. “Haven’t seen him all day. Thought he was with you.”

“I saw him in the library this morning,” offered Wensley. “Asked him if he was coming to watch the football game, but he said he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Huh,” said Crowley, suddenly worried. It wasn’t at all like Aziraphale to miss a meal. He hadn’t had time to go to the room before supper, so he wouldn’t even know if his roommate was ill.

He attacked his meal with sudden urgency, in a hurry to go find Aziraphale and make sure he was all right.

Not ten minutes later, Crowley was hurrying down the hallway to their room.

”Az?” he asked, opening the door softly in case his roommate was sleeping, but the room was deserted.

He tried the library next, but came up empty handed. The teachers weren’t around to consult with students on Saturdays, and there wasn’t any sport on, so where could Aziraphale be?

Crowley was staring out of a window, weighing the possibilities, when he spotted a familiar head of blonde curls in the distance. Aziraphale was sitting on a bench next to the football field, almost hidden from view by a copse of trees. Relieved, Crowley hurried over to him.

“What you doing out here?” Crowley asked as he sat down on the bench next to his friend.

Aziraphale turned, startled at the intrusion, and Crowley frowned when he saw his friend’s face. He was pale, even paler than usual, and his eyes were rimmed with red, as if he’d been crying.

“Oh, hi Crowley,” Aziraphale managed weakly, unsuccessfully attempting a smile.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Crowley asked, concern etching his voice. “Do I need to go punch someone in the face?”

Aziraphale managed a weak laugh at this, remembering Crowley’s declaration from that awful day. “No, nothing like that,” he managed. “It’s stupid really. It’s just – it’s my birthday.”

“Really?” said Crowley. “Happy birthday! Fuck, you should have told me, I’d have gotten you a present. Or we could have had cake, at least. Can’t celebrate without cake, can you?”

Crowley’s monologue petered out at this point, because Aziraphale was looking down at his hands again, looking like he was struggling not to cry.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle again. “What’s going on? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, not at all,” Aziraphale reassured him. “Quite the opposite. It’s just that, you’re the first one to wish me happy birthday today.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up at this. “What? Not even your parents? Or Gabriel?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, just bit his lip and shook his head, a tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek.

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley said, his voice breaking in sympathy. He didn’t know what else to say, so he put an arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders in a sideways hug. To his surprise, Aziraphale turned and burrowed his head into Crowley’s shoulder, and after another moment Crowley brought his other arm up for a proper hug.

They sat there for a few long moments, until Aziraphale collected himself enough to look up and give Crowley a watery smile. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You’re a good friend.”

Crowley, flustered by the compliment and Aziraphale’s closeness, moved away a bit as he sat up in his seat. Forced himself to look away from Aziraphale’s eyes before he said or did something unforgiveable. His gaze landed on a pile of what looked like cards clasped in Aziraphale’s hands.

“What are those?” he asked, gesturing, hoping for a change of topic.

Aziraphale didn’t answer him; instead, he offered a question of his own. “Didn’t you ever wonder why I came here this year?” he asked. “Why I wasn’t here from the start, like Gabriel?”

Crowley frowned a bit. “Hadn’t really thought of it, to be honest.” Aziraphale had become part of his life so effortlessly that it just felt as if he belonged there. “Now that you mention it, though, it doesn’t make sense. Wanna tell me?” Crowley asked.

“I used to live with my grandmother out in London,” started Aziraphale. “I never really fit in at home. I was always too quiet, too slow, too soft. Having an older brother like Gabriel just made it worse. But Nana loved me enough to make up for all of it.”

The tenderness in Aziraphale’s voice when he spoke of his grandmother was touching; he clearly loved her a great deal.

“When I was ready to go to school, she offered that I could go live with her in London instead of coming to St. Francis’. She convinced my parents that she was starting to feel old and frail, and needed someone young around the house. It was nonsense, of course, she was healthy as a horse, but I think she just knew I needed to get away. And she was right. I loved it in London, loved staying with her.”

Crowley was confused – why didn’t Aziraphale stay in London if he loved it so much? “Okay, so why leave, then? Why come here?” he asked.

“I didn’t have a choice,” answered Aziraphale. “Nana died in the summer.”

His voice broke at these words, but he soldiered on. “It was unexpected, a heart attack, they said. Anyway, my parents couldn’t let me stay in London alone, and didn’t want me at home, so I got sent here.”

Crowley didn’t say anything; he knew no words would be enough. Instead, he just put a hand on Aziraphale’s knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“These,” said Aziraphale, indicating the pile of cards he was holding, “are all the birthday cards she gave me over the years, since I was old enough to read. I kept them all.”

“And you’ve been reading them, because you miss her,” Crowley said, understanding dawning. “Oh, Angel, I’m so sorry,” he said.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, attempting a smile. “Thank you,” he said, “It means a lot to me, to know someone cares.”

After a few seconds, he added, “And it hasn’t been all bad, I suppose.”

“Really? How do you figure that?” asked Crowley.

“Well, I met you all, didn’t I? I’ve never had such good friends before.”

Crowley just dipped his head, not quite able to hide the smile that crept across his face. “C’mon, let’s go inside,” he said.

As they got up, added, “I’m glad you ended up here. Just so you know. I’ve had lots of friends, but never one like you. So yes. I’m so sorry about how you ended up here, but I’m really, really glad you did.”

And with that, he turned and strode off to the dormitory, Aziraphale following with a faint smile on his face, feeling much lighter than he had even ten minutes ago.

\---

Aziraphale was woken up by Crowley shaking his shoulder and hissing in his ear. He was confused – why wasn’t it his alarm clock waking him up? And it still seemed to be dark.

“Crowley?” he asked. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

Crowley shushed him. “Shh, nothing’s wrong, just wake up. Got a surprise for you.”

Aziraphale, now thoroughly confused, checked his watch. “It’s 2am, Crowley! What’s so important that it can’t wait until morning?” he demanded.

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” answered Crowley. “Just put on your slippers and come with me. And be quiet; if the teachers catch us, we’re dead meat.”

Aziraphale wasn’t keen on the idea of breaking school rules, but his curiosity had been piqued now. He silently shrugged into his dressing gown and followed Crowley down the corridor.

After a few minutes of sneaking around, Aziraphale realised they were headed for the music practice rooms. What on earth could Crowley want there in the middle of the night?

They stopped in front of one room, and Crowley knocked on the door, a quick little rhythm that suggested a code. To Aziraphale’s surprise, someone opened the door from inside and let them in.

“Close that door,” whispered Crowley once they were in, moving into the room and leaving Aziraphale standing by the door. “And make sure the windows are properly covered; no light can get out.”

“Done,” came Adam’s voice.

Only then was a lamp turned on, and Aziraphale was surprised to see the whole gang crammed into the music room.

Before he had a chance to say anything, Crowley played a chord on his guitar and the boys launched into an off-key rendition of Happy Birthday to You, complete with alternative lyrics.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. His friends had done this... for him?

As the final strains of the song died away, Adam presented him with a cupcake, in which a single candle was burning.

“Make a wish!” he said with a smile.

Aziraphale couldn’t imagine what more he could wish for, but he blew out the candle anyway, sending up a silent prayer of thanks for his new friends. 

“I told you, you can’t have a birthday without cake,” smirked Crowley, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Oh, so you’re behind this, you demon.” Aziraphale was trying to sound stern, but he missed by a mile, and it just came out fond.

Brian produced a couple of packets of biscuits seemingly out of nowhere, and Wensley pulled a bottle of soda out of his nightgown.

“A midnight feast, in honour of our newest friend!” declared Crowley, and they all settled down for an impromptu birthday party.

There was laughing, and singing, and Aziraphale doubted he’d ever been so happy in his life.

After about an hour, some of the boys started yawning, and they decided to get back to bed, lest they all fall asleep in chapel the next morning.

“We’d better leave one at a time, with a few minutes in between,” suggested Wensley “Better for sneaking about.”

“Good thinking,” agreed Adam. “Much easier to make up a believable excuse if one of us gets caught than if we’re all out there together.”

One by one, the boys started heading back to their rooms, until it was only Crowley and Aziraphale left. Crowley was idly strumming on his guitar.

“You wanna go first? I’ll follow in a few.” He said to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was lying on his back on the floor, head cushioned on Crowley’s guitar case, and he decided he was too comfortable to move just yet.

“In a minute,” he said. “Play me a song first. I still haven’t gotten that private concert you promised me,” he teased.

Crowley grinned back. “Okay, what do you want to hear?”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale considered. “How about one of your Queen songs? Didn’t they have one about best friends?”

“Yeah...” said Crowley, somewhat hesitantly. Aziraphale didn’t know it, but Crowley’s mind had immediately jumped ahead to the lyrics, and he was panicking a little at singing them to his best friend whom he happened to have a rather large crush on.

“Go on, then,” said Aziraphale, closing his eyes. Crowley took a fortifying breath, and started strumming the familiar chords.

“Ooh, you make me live,” he started singing softly, “Whatever this world can give to me. It’s you, you’re all I see...”

Aziraphale was still lying with his eyes closed, bead bobbing along minutely to the rhythm Crowley was tapping out with his foot. When he got to “I really love you...”, Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked over to Crowley.

“That’s not exactly a platonic sort of best friend, is it?” he asked.

Crowley snorted out a laugh, and stopped playing. “You asked for it, Angel.” He chuckled. “But yes, it’s definitely a love song. Either that, or Freddie was reeeeallly close with his friends. Or Deacon, I suppose – the bass player – I think he wrote it.”

Aziraphale chuckled at Crowley’s tendency to spout random rock music trivia at the least provocation.

“It’s true though,” said Aziraphale.

“What?” asked Crowley, distractedly.

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” said Aziraphale, grinning.

“Likewise,” responded Crowley with a goofy grin of his own.

“Well, thank you for the performance. I think we’d best get back to our room now, hey?” said Aziraphale, pushing himself to his feet. Crowley followed, putting his guitar in its case and stashing it in a corner. Ignoring their agreed-upon safety precautions, the two friends sneaked back to their room together, fortunately not encountering anyone on the way.

It was well after three AM by the time they were safely back in their room.

“Crowley,” whispered Aziraphale to his roommate’s back where he was standing next to his bed, wriggling out of his dressing gown.

“Yeah?” said Crowley, turning to face Aziraphale.

“I just wanted to say thank you again. This was... well, to be honest, I think it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“No big deal,” said Crowley. “Totally worth it, if it made your birthday a bit better.”

Before Crowley knew what was happening, Aziraphale was hugging him, whispering “It was a big deal to me.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale back, not quite trusting his voice yet. After a few deep breaths, he pulled away reluctantly, saying “Go to bed, you old softie.”

Aziraphale gave him one last smile, then turned and got into bed.

Crowley spent the next ten minutes trying to get his heart rate back down to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Deacon wrote You're my Best Friend for his wife. So no, it's not entirely platonic at all. Just FYI.  
> Here's the music video, if you don't know it: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaZpZQG2z10>


	5. December 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas break, and the boys are separated from each other for the first time since they've met.

The first week of December saw the arrival of exams – two weeks of non-stop studying and sleeplessness which could only be survived with the help of frankly alarming quantities of caffeine and sugar. Every waking moment was spent hitting the books, and sleep was a precious commodity to be indulged in sparingly. By the end of it, nerves were raw and tempers frayed.

The last paper – algebra – was written on Wednesday morning, and school was breaking up for Christmas on Friday, so Dr Device had scheduled her history film festival for the Thursday. She had wisely opted to start after lunch, knowing the boys would probably need a solid 20 hours’ sleep to recover after their last exam. Despite the academic nature of the exercise – they had to write a paper, after all – the boys were looking forward to the film festival as if it were a trip to the movies. Dr Device had somehow convinced Sanderson to let them use the teachers’ lounge; the boys couldn’t sit on hard chairs for so many hours on end, she had argued, and besides, it was the only room with a VCR.

And that is how, one Thursday afternoon in mid-December, 20-odd boys (and, for some unfathomable reason, Mr Pulsifer, the science teacher) found themselves crammed into the sofas of the teachers’ lounge, watching World War II movies. They’d started with The Longest Day, followed by Bridge over the River Kwai, before breaking for supper. Each film had been followed by a lively discussion, the boys taking copious notes for their papers. After supper, they returned for one more film, Das Boot. A few of the boys had gone off to the dorms after supper to collect pillows and blankets, since the winter evenings were bitingly cold even indoors.

After wrapping up the discussion of Das Boot, Dr Device produced a fourth video cassette.

“Now this one,” she said mischievously, “is just for fun. So, if you’re tired, feel free to go off to bed. Those of you that want to relax here a while longer, huddle up.”

A few boys made their way out, unable to resist the siren call of sleep, and the rest of them crammed onto the sofas and chairs closest to the TV, covering themselves in blankets to ward off the winter chill. Crowley and Aziraphale were among those that elected to stay and watch, crammed onto a three-seater sofa between Brian and Adam. Crowley was exhausted, and honestly wouldn’t have minded going to bed, but he’d be damned if he’d get up now. They were almost cuddling, for someone’s sake.

The movie started, and Crowley recognised the opening sequence of Ghostbusters; he’d seen it in the cinema when it was released last year. He kept half an eye on the screen, and allowed his mind to wander.

Unlike probably everyone else in the room, he was dreading the Christmas break. Two and a half weeks at home with his family, being forced to talk about boring business deals and not playing his new guitar – blech. Maybe he could sneak off to visit Bea. Maybe they could even spend some time with Luke and the band. He perked up a bit at this thought. He’d better phone Bea tomorrow.

The other (bigger?) problem was that he wouldn’t see his friends that entire time, specifically a certain blonde-haired angel. Aziraphale’s family home wasn’t that far from his, but the Feltons were going away for the holiday and would only be back in the new year, just in time for school. Crowley was a bit embarrassed at how much that thought depressed him; he’d grown used to Aziraphale’s gentle presence, and wasn’t keen to be without it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a weight pressing against his side. Aziraphale was leaning sideways, eyes closed, if not asleep then very close to it.

He was just about to nudge Aziraphale and ask if he wanted to go, when the blonde sort of... snuggled into his shoulder, and Crowley’s brain went offline for a moment. He darted his eyes around the room; thankfully, everyone else was either asleep or focused on the film. Even as he was looking, Brian slumped onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, pushing him even more snugly against Crowley.

Crowley considered his options, and decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Then an idea occurred to him; the kind of idea that is born of sleep deprivation and adolescent hormones. Under the cover of the blanket, where no-one could see, he gently slid his hand over to cover Aziraphale’s. He waited a moment to be sure his roommate hadn’t noticed, then curled his fingers around the soft palm.

His heart stuttered when he felt warm fingers squeeze his. Tensely, he glanced to the side – nope, Aziraphale was still fast asleep; it must have been pure reflex. Crowley relaxed, sinking into the couch, and wished to himself that the movie would never end.

Of course, inevitably, it did. As the end credits started to roll, Crowley retrieved his hand before gently elbowing Aziraphale and whispering “Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.”

Aziraphale made an unintelligible snuffling sound, like a sleepy hedgehog, and attempted to bury his face in Crowley’s shoulder. The unexpected boniness must have given him some clue that he wasn’t, in fact, in his bed, because he sat up, blinking dazedly, blonde curls smooshed flat where he’d been lying on them. God, he was adorable.

“Movie’s over,” said Crowley. “I think you missed, oh, about two thirds of it.”

Then he added, a bit louder, “Oi, Brian, wake up; you’re squashing poor Az.”

Dr Device switched on the light, prompting a chorus of groans as they squinted against the sudden brightness.

“All right, you lot, off to bed with you,” she said, gently shooing them out of the door as Mr Pulsifer started moving the sofas back where they belonged. “We’ll clean up here.”

Not needing to be told twice, the boys grabbed their pillows and blankets and headed to the dorms.

On the walk back, Crowley noticed that Aziraphale was shivering – not surprising, since he’d gone from being pressed between two warm bodies under a blanket to wandering St. Francis’s draughty corridors without so much as a light jacket.

Wordlessly, Crowley took the blanket he had wrapped around himself and draped it over Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Thanks,” Aziraphale said, and then frowned. “But now you’re cold.”

“I’ll live,” said Crowley with a shrug.

“No need. Come on, this thing’s big enough for two.” Aziraphale was holding the blanket open with one arm, beckoning to Crowley to join him. What could he do? He stepped up to his roommate, slipped an arm around his shoulder, and used his free hand to pull the blanket snug.

Back in their room, they hurriedly changed into their pyjamas before saying goodnight and collapsing into bed, grateful for the warmth of the covers.

That night, Crowley dreamed of blonde curls tickling his cheek and a soft hand wrapped in his.

Little did he know that a few feet over his roommate was having very similar dreams about a bony shoulder and long, callus-tipped fingers.

\---

Aziraphale sighed into his mug of cocoa. He was curled up in bed with A Christmas Carol, as he always was on Christmas eve, but tonight he couldn’t concentrate on the story. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so miserable on Christmas eve before.

Christmas had always been one of his favourite times of the year, but this year he couldn’t wait for it to be over. It was his first Christmas without his grandmother, and he was feeling the loss keenly. To make it worse, he was also separated from the group of friends he’d grown to love; he hadn’t realised how much they filled his days until now. All he had for company here was Gabriel, his parents, the few books he’d brought along and his schoolwork for the holidays. Frankly, the books were the best company out of the whole lot, and even the blasted schoolwork was preferable to socialising with his family – he’d already finished Dr Device’s paper and the rough work for his English oral presentation in a bid to avoid them. His parents mostly ignored him, as they always had, but Gabriel kept trying to give him what he probably thought was brotherly advice that just came off as condescending.

Aziraphale closed his book with a sigh; it was a lost cause.

Perhaps... yes, perhaps he could open Crowley’s gift. His friend had presented him with a wrapped package on the last day of school, much to his surprise, and made him promise he wouldn’t open it until Christmas. It wasn’t quite Christmas yet, but hey, it would be in a few hours. It was already Christmas somewhere in the world, right? Like, Australia?

Feeling satisfied with this admittedly rather twisted argument, he went to get the parcel where he’d stored it in his cupboard. The size and shape of it suggested a thin book, which seemed likely enough. Unwilling to wait any longer, he carefully peeled back the tape and pushed aside the wrapping paper to reveal a plain hardcover notebook, bound in black.

Curious, he opened it to the first page. There was a note in Crowley’s now-familiar scrawl.

_Angel_ it said (the nickname had long since stopped making him blush; in fact, it now felt a bit strange to hear Crowley call him by his name, even though he only used the angel nickname when they were alone). _You like poetry; I like rock music. Perhaps this will show you that rock music can also be poetry -C._

Paging through the notebook, he saw that every page had a poem written on it – or rather, he supposed, a set of song lyrics. He recognised a few of the band names from Crowley’s music collection, although there were plenty he’d never heard of before.

The gift was so very Crowley, and absolutely perfect. He smiled to himself, the first genuinely happy smile he’d given all week, and settled back in bed to read.

\--

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel’s voice jolted him out of sleep, accompanied by loud knocking on the door. “Get up! Church in an hour!”

Aziraphale opened his eyes, made some vaguely affirmative noise to get his brother to shut up.

When he sat up, something fell off his chest onto the floor. Crowley’s notebook: he must have fallen asleep reading it last night. The memory brought a smile to his face again. He would have to phone Crowley after church, to thank him for the gift.

The church service dragged by with excruciating slowness, although the choir was quite good.

Afterwards, they headed back for lunch. There was no exchange of gifts; his parents didn’t see any reason to engage in such frivolity.

As his mother busied herself in the kitchen and his father and Gabriel settled themselves by the fire, Aziraphale excused himself to go make a quick phone call. Luckily, he’d had the foresight to get Crowley’s home telephone number before they parted for the holidays. He punched in the number and listened to the ringing on the other side of the line, excited to speak to his friend.

“Crowley residence,” barked a man’s voice through the phone.

“Oh, hello Mr Crowley,” said Aziraphale in his politest voice. “It’s Aziraphale, Cro- Anthony’s roommate from school. I trust you are having a merry Christmas?”

“Yeah, what do you want?” asked the older man gruffly, not bothering with niceties.

“I was hoping to speak to Anthony, if he’s around?”

“Hold on,” came the barked reply, and the sound of the receiver being placed down on the table.

Aziraphale heard Mr Crowley calling out to his son, heard Crowley’s answering shout.

“Hello?” came Crowley’s voice. He sounded a little winded, as if he’d run to the phone.

Aziraphale beamed, something warm and bright unfurling in his chest at the sound of that familiar voice. “Crowley! Merry Christmas!” He couldn’t keep the joy out of his voice.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Angel. Didn’t they put you on top of the tree, then?”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, stop it, you fiend,” he teased affectionately. “I’m phoning to thank you for your gift, and here’s you being rude to me!”

“Oh, so you opened it, then. Did you like it?” asked Crowley, sounding strangely nervous.

“I loved it, It’s very... you. Although I must confess, I still don’t recognise a lot of those musicians.”

“Poets, Angel, they’re poets,” said Crowley with mock exasperation, pulling a laugh from Aziraphale.

“Don’t worry, I’ll play you all those songs, I have most of them on tape. Could probably sing you the ones I don’t have.”

“What, I get a book and a music show? It’s Christmas, indeed.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to laugh. Aziraphale basked in it – oh, how he missed laughing with Crowley.

“So, what have you been up to?” Crowley asked, and they spent the next several minutes recounting their holidays so far, until Aziraphale’s mother called him to set the table for lunch.

“I’ve got to go, but I’ll call again sometime, if that’s okay?” he said.

“Yeah, of course. Angel,” said Crowley, then hesitated.

“Yes?” prompted Aziraphale.

“I miss you,” said Crowley, softer than before.

“I miss you too, you softie,” smiled Aziraphale. He was hesitant to admit – even to himself – just how much. “Now go do Christmassy things with your family. We’ll talk again in a few days.”

\---

The next day, Crowley was kicking himself for not getting the telephone number of the Feltons’ holiday home. Talking to Aziraphale on Christmas had just made him miss him more. So, in an effort to distract himself, he phoned Bea instead. That turned out to be an excellent idea; she was on her way to Luke’s and invited him to tag along.

Since it was Boxing Day, there wasn’t much going on in town, and they spent the morning at Luke’s place watching movies. After lunch, they headed over to Damon’s; Luke had written a new song that the band wanted to arrange, and since the drum kit was by far the most cumbersome instrument to move Damon’s garage had become their default practice studio.

Liam was already there when they arrived, and he greeted them with an enthusiastic wave.

“So, how’s it going with you and the electric?” he asked Crowley.

“Oh, man, she’s a dream,” he grinned. “I miss her like crazy. Had to leave her at school for the hols, lest daddy dearest decide to run her over with the car.”

“Jeez, that bites,” Liam said sympathetically.

“Care to show us how you’re getting along?” Luke asked, holding his guitar out to Crowley.

“Um, okay,” he said, hesitantly. It was a bit intimidating, playing for these guys – they were actual performers, for someone’s sake, they wrote their own songs and everything. But he steeled himself. They were his friends, sort of; he was fairly sure they wouldn’t be mean.

“Do you know Smoke on the Water?” Damon asked, settling himself behind the drums.

“Sure,” Crowley said. It was a classic, one of those songs all guitarists learned.

“Take it away, then,” Damon grinned.

Crowley let his fingers fly over the familiar power chords, and smiled when he realised Liam was also playing along. Luke adjusted something on a foot pedal, giving the guitars that slightly distorted sound that the song called for. After the first two bars, Damon joined them on the drums. They just needed the bass and they would be doing a credible impression of Deep Purple. As if he’d been summoned, Harry appeared at the door.

“Starting without me, are you?” he grinned, setting down his case.

“Get set up, then, slowpoke,” Liam teased.

Minutes later, they were all set up and ready for round two. Crowley offered Luke’s guitar back to him, but he waved it off. “I’ll take the mic for now,” he said.

This time, with Harry on the bass and Luke doing a decent approximation of Rod Evans, they really did sound like a decent Deep Purple cover. It was thrilling, playing with other musicians, four sets of hands and two voices working together almost like one organism. He could get addicted to this.

The song ended, but Liam immediately started a new one. Crowley recognised the opening strains of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. He’d never played it before, but it was simple enough, and he quickly picked it up by watching Liam’s hands. Luke couldn’t quite match Brian Johnson’s trademark vocal screech, but it was an impressive effort, nonetheless.

At the end of that song he handed Luke’s guitar back to him – they had stuff to practice, after all. “Thanks, man,” he beamed at Luke. “That was the best fun I’ve had in ages.”

“You’re pretty good,” Luke said. “Next time, we’ll bring an extra guitar for you.”

_Next time_. Crowley liked the sound of that.

The band got to work practicing their new song, and Crowley flopped down on beanbag chair next to Bea.

“I like your friends,” he announced.

“Well, my boyfriend’s friends, technically,” Bea said. “I haven’t known them all that long.”

“Aren’t you all at school together?” he asked.

“Fuck, no,” Bea said. “Luke’s the only one who’s still in school, and even that’s only because he flunked a year. Damon’s in college, doing some sort of admin diploma. Liam is training to be a mechanic; he’s working at that garage on Main street. I have no idea what Harry does.”  
“Huh,” Crowley said. “How does Luke know them, then?”

“Not sure, actually,” Bea said. “Probably bonded over music, if I had to guess.”

“Makes sense,” Crowley said. “They’re a fucking talented lot.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Bea said, nudging him. Crowley blushed at the praise.

“Hey, you two,” Luke asked after a while. “Help us out. We’re having a bit of a creative disagreement over the bridge of this song. Which of these sounds better? This one,” he played a riff, singing along.

“Or this one,” Liam continued, playing his own version.

Crowley listened attentively. They were both good, yet neither was quite right.

Bea shrugged. “Sound the same to me,” she said. “You guys know I’m not musical.”

“Crowley?” Luke asked.

“I don’t know,” he said carefully. “I don’t think either one is quite... Like, Luke, yours has such a fantastic melody, but then yours,” he gestured at Liam, “the energy is off the charts.” The rest of the band nodded in agreement.

“So why don’t you combine them somehow,” Bea suggested.

“Actually, that could work,” Crowley said. “Like...” he hummed a snippet of music, which Luke copied on the guitar. It retained the earlier melody, but spiced up a bit, as it were. Liam joined in, adding some more flourish on the guitar, and Luke brought in the vocals.

They’d played it through a few times until they finally agreed on the best format.

“Perfect,” Harry declared.

“Yeah,” Liam agreed. “Maybe we should have you over more often, hey?” he said to Crowley.

“I wish,” Crowley chuckled. “But it’s back to prison for me in a week’s time.”

“Well, you should hang out with us until then,” Luke invited. “I’ll bring an extra guitar; you can jam with us.”

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Crowley said with a smile. “That sounds fantastic!” He would have taken any excuse to get out of the house, but this? This was heaven.

Luke kept his word, and by the end of the week, he could play along to most of MorningStar’s songs. Occasionally he would join Liam on the backing vocals too; he’d never thought of himself as much of a singer, but their voices actually worked together pretty well.

He got so tight with the band that Bea started joking her cousin was spending more time with her boyfriend than she was.

“That’s why you should be in your boyfriend’s band, Bee,” Liam joked, winking at Harry.

That those two were more than friends had come as a bit of a surprise to Crowley, but not an unpleasant one. It was actually incredibly freeing to be with a group of people where he could be so totally himself. Not that they knew about his sexuality, much less his massive crush on his roommate, but they didn’t need to; it was enough to know that he wouldn’t be judged if (or rather, when) they did find out.

As much as he had enjoyed hanging out with the band, though, he was looking forward to going back to school. It would be nice to see his friends again.

Oh, who was he kidding. He was really just desperate to see one particular friend. The one he shared a room with, who was a friend to him like no-one else had been before.

Crowley grinned to himself. He couldn’t wait to tell Aziraphale about his holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What songs did Crowley write down for Aziraphale's gift? I'll leave that up to you to decide...


	6. January 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley helps Aziraphale out with a difficult school assignment. Aziraphale learns something about his roommate that he never knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you've read my stuff before, you'll know I can't resist a Shakespearean sonnet. I'm sorry / you're welcome.

The first Sunday of January saw St. Francis’ Academy overrun with cars and people as the students returned for the second term. It was better than the start of the first term had been, though; for one thing, no mind-numbing assembly to sit through. For another, Aziraphale didn’t feel nearly as lost as he had on the first day. In fact, he had started to feel rather at home in the old building.

Aziraphale hurried to his room, eager to see his roommate again. To his surprise, Crowley wasn’t there. He cracked open Crowley’s wardrobe – yep, there were his clothes; that meant he had to be around somewhere.

Before he could even wonder where to start searching, though, he was half-hugged, half-tackled from the side with an exuberant “Angel!”

“Crowley!” laughed Aziraphale as they lost their balance, landing on Crowley’s bed in an undignified heap. “Get off, you monster!” giggled Aziraphale, poking his roommate in the ribs. To his surprise, this made Crowley squirm.

“Oh, ticklish, are we?” said Aziraphale with a devilish grin.

Before Crowley had a chance to respond, Aziraphale was pinning him down with one arm, tickling him with the other hand.

“Mercy! Mercy!” Crowley managed breathlessly.

“The fuck are you two doing?” came a voice from the doorway. Michael was standing there with his mouth open, Wensley looking over his shoulder and trying to suppress a laugh.

Aziraphale jumped up, smoothing out his jumper. He could feel his face redden.

“Just saying hi,” said Crowley with a sly wink, which earned him an eye roll from Aziraphale.

“Putting this one in his place, more like,” he retorted.

“Ohh-kay,” said Michael sceptically. “Well, if you’re quite done, let’s go say hi to the rest of the gang.”

They found Adam and Brian in their room, unpacking. The exuberant greetings reminded Aziraphale of his first day at St. Francis’, but with one important difference: this time he was as much a part of the gang as everyone else. Before long they’d all settled on various surfaces in the room, the door was shut, and the ritual cigarette had been lit.

“So guys,” said Adam, reclining on the bed. “Big news: Sarah’s getting married.”

“About bloody time,” opined Brian. “How long has she been going out with Peter now – like, six years?”

“Sarah?” whispered Aziraphale to Crowley.

“Adam’s older sister,” he whispered back.

“Anyway,” continued Adam. “You’re all invited. Well, strictly speaking Brian and Wensley are. She says you’re her honorary younger brothers. But since we’re a bunch of hopeless bachelors who don’t have girlfriends, I asked if we could bring you guys along instead of dates,” he said, gesturing to Crowley, Aziraphale and Michael. “So, what do you all say? Fancy a weekend away from school? Big party, free booze?”

“Hell, yeah!” said Crowley. “But you have to promise me one thing, Adam,” he went on, affecting a very solemn tone of voice.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” asked Adam.

“You won’t try to kiss your date.” All the boys burst out laughing at this, as Adam made retching noises at the thought.

“As long as you promise not to fall arse-over-tits in love with me, Crow-man,” he retorted.

“No danger of that,” laughed Crowley.

“You say that now, but wait till you see _this_ in a suit,” said Adam, posing like a runway model. Wensley pretended to swoon like a Victorian maiden at the sight.

“Ugh,” groaned Brian. “I hate suits.”

“I don’t even own a suit,” said Crowley.

“Well, make a plan,” said Adam. “You guys aren’t embarrassing my sister at her wedding. That’s my job!”

\-------

One of the first assignments due after the holidays was the English oral, and Aziraphale was steadily freaking out.

The assignment itself had been simple enough: rewrite one of Shakespeare’s sonnets in modern English, retaining the proper structure and core message. He had chosen Sonnet 23, one of his favourites – and besides, the opening lines about an actor with stage fright seemed extremely apt.

The writing part had been easy; it had taken Aziraphale less than a day. It was the fact that they had to recite their rewritten sonnets in front of the entire class that was threatening to give him a panic attack.

“How are you so calm?!” he asked Crowley the night before the assignment was due. Aziraphale was pacing up and down the narrow space in their room, his nervous energy not allowing him to sit still. Crowley, on the other hand, was sprawled out on his bed, regarding his roommate with amusement.

“It’s just our friends in the class,” Crowley said with a shrug. “I’ve played guitar for them often enough; this isn’t that different.”

“I’ll never understand how you can do that,” Aziraphale responded. “But you’re forgetting something – it’s not just our friends, it’s our teacher. Giving us marks!”  
“And?” Crowley’s nonchalance was maddening.

“And? And??!” Aziraphale was getting a little hysterical. “What if I mess it up? Forget the words, or make a mistake? Oh, what if my whole poem is just rubbish?”

“Angel,” Crowley caught him by the arm as he walked past. “Relax. It will be fine.” He thought for a moment. “Do you want to practice saying it for me? Might take the edge off your nerves, yeah?”

Aziraphale considered this, and decided that it made some sense. “Okay,” he said, digging for the notebook in which he’d written his poem. “But you have to promise you won’t laugh.”

“I would never,” Crowley said. The earnestness of his expression did a lot to soothe Aziraphale’s nerves.

The first run-through was an unmitigated disaster. Aziraphale kept tripping over the words, anxiety knotting his tongue together. With every mistake he had to fight the urge to cringe, expecting the harsh words to come any moment.

But they never did. Crowley calmly sat there as he stuttered his way through the poem, not saying anything. When he finished, Aziraphale looked up at him nervously, waiting for the criticism to start.

“You’re a fucking fantastic poet, you know that?” Crowley said with a soft smile.

Oh. Well, that wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, ducking his head shyly, “But I know the delivery leaves something to be desired.”

“We can work on that,” Crowley said confidently. “Come on, go again.”

He did, again and again. It was a bit easier the second time, and got better with every repetition. After a dozen or so runs, he was looking Crowley in the eyes as he spoke, all traces of nervousness forgotten.

“There you go!” Crowley said after a final run. “Do it that way tomorrow, and you’ll blow Ms. Tracy away.” He gave Aziraphale an encouraging smile.

“Thank you. Really.” Aziraphale was so much calmer now, he even managed a genuine smile.

“My pleasure,” Crowley responded easily. “If you get nervous tomorrow, just look at me and pretend we’re here in our room, and you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll do that, thanks.” Looking at Crowley was hardly a hardship, after all, and now he had an excuse to do so unashamedly.

\---

The next morning, Aziraphale’s nerves were back in full force. He fidgeted in his seat as the first few students recited their poems. He was shamefully relieved that they all made the odd mistake, and no-one laughed or made fun of them. He also privately thought his own paraphrase was much better, although he’d never admit it out loud. Ms Tracy gave encouraging comments after each recitation, which was another promising development; Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to handle being criticised in front of the entire class.

Just when he’d calmed down enough that he thought he might actually be able to do this, Ms. Tracy called his name, and his heart rate doubled immediately. Crowley must have sensed it, because he leaned over and whispered, “Remember, look at me, just like we practiced. You can do this.”

He gave Crowley a weak smile and walked to the front of the classroom. He caught Crowley’s eyes from the front, and got an encouraging smile and double thumbs-up from his friend. Okay, then; eyes fixed on Crowley. Like it was just the two of them, practicing in their room. He took a deep breath, and began:

_“Just like an actor, stumbling on the stage_

_Whose lines are stolen from his mouth by fear,_

_Or some great beast, so blinded by its rage_

_Its strength is lost, its senses disappear._

_So my own mouth is stopped by my own doubt,_

_I cannot speak the perfect love I feel,_

_It makes it seem my love is running out_

_When truly, it is all I know for real._

_So, let these written words speak in my place,_

_And let my heart’s most precious truth be known:_

_That all that I desire is your embrace,_

_And for my heart to claim you as my own._

_Oh, learn to read what’s written in my eyes!_

_They show love that I cannot disguise.”_

Aziraphale didn’t look away from Crowley for a moment – besides, the lines of the poem were a reasonable approximation of his own state of mind; being too overwhelmed and fearful to speak a certain simple truth. He smiled with relief when he realised his roommate was beaming at him proudly. It could almost make him believe he’d done a good job.

There was a moment of silence after he stopped talking, and then the class erupted in spontaneous applause. Aziraphale was sure he was blushing to high heaven.

“An excellent job, Mr Felton,” Ms Tracy said with a smile. “You have quite the flair for poetry, I dare say.” Aziraphale ducked his head bashfully at the praise as Ms Tracy turned to the class. “If I have succeeded in teaching you lot anything about rhyme and metre, you may have noticed that Mr. Felton wrote in perfect iambic pentameter, just like Shakespeare did, while maintaining the same rhyming pattern. Take heed how it how it gives a certain musical lilt to the lines, lets them roll off the tongue. There’s a reason why I teach you these things, boys. You may take your seat, thank you,” she said to Aziraphale, who had still been rooted to the spot. He scuttled gratefully to his desk and sank down in his seat. Thank God that was over.

As soon as he was seated, Crowley leaned over again. “You did great!” he whispered. Aziraphale found himself returning his roommate’s smile. Somehow, his approval meant more than anyone else’s, even the teacher’s. Perhaps he wasn’t terrible at this, after all.

Now that the worst was over, Aziraphale could relax and enjoy listening to his classmates’ efforts – some, admittedly, better than others. When it was Crowley’s turn, he leaned over and whispered, “Good luck!”. He wanted to support Crowley the same way his friend had supported him. Crowley just winked and sauntered confidently to the front.

Unlike Aziraphale, he was a natural performer, letting his gaze roam easily over the room as he recited his own version of Sonnet 29[1]. It was a rather dark poem, an expression of despair and hopelessness, and Crowley infused it with so much emotion that Aziraphale was tempted to reach out and comfort his friend. But it was just a poem, of course, and Crowley was just a brilliant actor. Aziraphale felt his breath leave him when Crowley caught his eye and held his gaze, speaking the final couplet with utmost conviction:

_“To know you love me, that is all I need,_

_And even kings would wish to be like me.”_

Crowley dropped his gaze, then, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks, and Aziraphale tried to remember how breathing works. Crowley hadn’t been speaking those words to him, of course, not _really_ ; he was just a convenient place for his eyes to rest. But it had felt that way, just for a moment, and even that moment was enough to knock his train of thought clean off its rails.

He blinked rapidly, struggling to gather his scattered thoughts as Crowley made his way back down the aisle to his seat, not hearing a word of Ms Tracy’s comments. By the time Crowley sat down, he had collected himself enough to lean over and whisper _“good job!”_ , which earned him a shy smile in response.

They turned their attention back to the front then, and laughed along to Adam’s frankly hilarious version of [Sonnet 130](https://www.nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/130/).

\--

“I never knew you were such a good actor,” Aziraphale said later that day, when they were in their room.

“Hm?” Crowley looked up from where he’d been unlacing his shoes.

“The poetry, in English. Your recitation was really good. Very... evocative.”

Crowley just shrugged. “I guess it’s easy to be convincing when you’re saying stuff you mean.”

Aziraphale’s mind flicked back to the poem; he remembered the sense of despondency Crowley’s recitation had conveyed. That it could have come from a place of true experience... well, that was more than a little concerning. But he’d never seen anything to suggest that Crowley was depressive. If anything, he was the opposite. Or seemed to be, at least. Maybe he was an even better actor that anyone realised.

“Do you really get like that?” Aziraphale asked eventually. “All... melancholic?”

“Well, yeah. Sometimes.” Crowley squirmed. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale agreed. “But, well, not _that_ down. Not like _I don’t want to live anymore_ down.”

Crowley gave a wry laugh. “Don’t worry, angel. I’m not gonna go off myself or anything.” He gave a deep sigh, and continued in a more subdued tone. “I won’t lie, though; there have been times when I wished I could just... disappear. Just not exist anymore, you know?”

Aziraphale felt something clench in his chest at his friend’s admission. “Oh, my dear,” he said, “I had no idea.”

“Don’t blame you,” Crowley said. “It’s been better lately. Schoolwork keeps my mind off it. Friends. Music. It all helps. Usually it hits me when I’m at home, and there’s nothing to distract me. Don’t have time for too much self-pity at school.”  
That made sense, at least. Aziraphale had often though the best way to stay cheerful was to stay busy. But still, he wanted to offer his support, to be there for his friend when he needed it.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he began. “But will you do me a favour? If you ever feel like that, please tell me. Even if we’re at home; call me up. Okay?”

“Um, okay, I guess?” Crowley said, seeming a little nonplussed. “But why?”

“Because I’m your friend, you silly goose,” Aziraphale said. “That’s what friends do; they help each other through the tough times. If nothing else, talking to someone might make it a bit easier to bear.”

Crowley gave him his first genuine smile since the start of this conversation. It was small, but it was there. “Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Aziraphale confirmed. “You’re my best friend, Crowley; I care about you.” Not the whole truth, not by a long shot, but enough truth for now. It certainly seemed to be enough truth for Crowley, who tackled him in a hug.

“Thanks, angel,” he murmured. “You’re the best.”

“Anytime, my dear,” Aziraphale answered, enjoying the simple warmth of his embrace.

### Footnote

1 Crowley’s poem? Here you go:

_“When I am down and out, my lowest low,_

_Crying in my bed alone at night,_

_Prayers are useless – heaven doesn’t hear –_

_All is darkness; I can’t see the light;_

_I’ll trade my life with any other man,_

_To steal his job, or have his classy style,_

_To have his friends, his riches or his skills;_

_My favourite things can’t even make me smile._

_But as I spiral into my dark thoughts_

_My mind inevitably turns to you,_

_And suddenly, it’s like the sun breaks through,_

_My heart begins to sing a hopeful tune._

_To know you love me, that is all I need,_

_And even kings would wish to be like me.”_ [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe I should note: Crowley's experience of depression is based very much on my own. So if it seems strange or unrealistic... yeah, no, it's real. You can be sick of living and yet fully functional and normal-seeming at the same time.  
> [PS don't worry about me, I take my meds and I'm fine now.]


	7. February 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang attend Sarah's wedding and meet a couple of new/old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dancing! Music! Boys in suits!
> 
> Also, a certain goth boy appears, because I have a massive soft spot for him.
> 
> YouTube videos of the songs are linked in the text and in the endnotes.

Crowley hadn’t been joking when he said he didn’t own a suit. So, a couple of weeks before Sarah’s wedding, he dragged Aziraphale to town with him one Saturday morning.

“Why am I here again?” asked Aziraphale, as they were walking down the main street. “I already have a suit, remember?”

“Moral support,” said Crowley. “Also, we can find you a new shirt. Plain white with that grey suit makes you look far too much like an accountant or banker or something.”

He chuckled at Aziraphale’s offended huff as he steered them to a decent clothing retailer.

They spent a while flipping through the racks of clothes. Aziraphale held out a jacket in a weird mustard-yellow colour. “How about this one?” he said. “It matches your eyes.”

“Yuck, no,” Crowley answered. “That colour doesn’t belong in the world of the living.”

“Okay, then, what about this?” Aziraphale held up some awful tartan-patterned beige abomination.

“Not on your life.” Crowley said. “I think my grandfather had a jacket like that. When he was in high school.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Aziraphale, holding up the jacket against Crowley’s torso. “Tartan is stylish.”

“Angel, no, please,” Crowley groaned. “This is 1986, not 1946.”

“Well, fine,” Aziraphale said with a pout. “What do you have in mind?”

“Black,” Crowley said decisively. “Let’s stick to plain black. Maaaaaaybe very dark grey.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Aziraphale said, but he relented and turned to a rack of dark suits.

They quickly found three different black suits in Crowley’s size. After a brief debate on whether black-on-black was too funereal, he also selected a deep red shirt with a thin black tie. They made their way to the change rooms, and Aziraphale settled himself on a handy stool while Crowley went to change.

He modelled the suits one by one. They all looked okay, but he’d kept his favourite for last. It had a slimmer cut than the others; the jacket was shorter than most, and tailored in a way that accentuated his slim waist, while the trousers hugged his arse in what even he could admit was a very flattering way.

“I think this is the one, angel,” he called, before he emerged from the changing cubicle. Judging by the way Aziraphale’s eyes widened, he agreed.

“Wow, that’s...” Aziraphale started, seeming a bit lost for words. “That looks really good.”

Crowley decided to milk it a bit; he took off the jacket and wiggled his bum at Aziraphale. “Nice trousers, don’t you think?” he said, teasingly.

He was _not_ expecting the slap on the bum that that earned him. “You are far too full of yourself, you fiend,” Aziraphale said. Crowley did not miss his blush, however.

“It still needs something, I think,” Aziraphale remarked, eyeing him critically. “I think I know just the thing. Wait a mo.” And with that he disappeared back into the store.

He returned with a waistcoat, of all things. Not an item of clothing Crowley had ever worn, but he had to admit this one was beautiful; a black, satiny fabric with dark red pinstripes that shimmered when it caught the light in the right way. He wordlessly slipped it on and did up the buttons.

“Credit where credit’s due,” he said to Aziraphale. “This works really well.”

Aziraphale stepped in front of him and adjusted his collar and tie, then smoothed down the sleeves of his shirt. “There,” he said, smiling faintly. “Perfect.”

Crowley was a little overwhelmed with the proximity and the compliments, but he managed to say, “Pass me the jacket, let’s see how the whole ensemble looks.”

“Well, now,” Aziraphale said, once he’d slipped it on, “I’m not sure if you’ll be welcome at a wedding, looking like that.”

“Huh? What?” Crowley couldn’t fathom this sudden change of tune.

“I’m fairly certain that it’s bad form to upstage both the groom and the bride,” Aziraphale said by way of explanation. Crowley burst out laughing.

That objective achieved, they set out to find a shirt for Aziraphale. Of course, he wanted to go for beige and pastel blue shades, but after some wheedling Crowley also convinced him to try on a deep turquoise-blue shirt.

“That’s it, that’s the one,” Crowley said, the moment Aziraphale emerged from the cubicle.

“You don’t think it’s a bit... flash?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly.

“No way,” Crowley answered honestly. “Have you seen how it brings out the colour of your eyes? You look bloody gorgeous.” He really did. Crowley tried not to stare, but he wasn’t so sure he was succeeding.

Aziraphale seemed flustered by the praise. “Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far, but thank you,” he said.

“I would,” Crowley insisted. “You really look good in that shirt.” And in every other shirt, and without a shirt for that matter – but he didn’t say that bit out loud. “C’mon, let’s get a tie to match.”

Eventually, they settled on a satiny silver-grey bowtie with (Crowley had lost that fight) a delicate tartan pattern that matched the colour of the shirt.

Satisfied with their morning’s shopping, they grabbed an ice-cream (because of course Aziraphale wanted ice cream, and Crowley couldn’t say no to him) and headed back to school.

\---

Sarah and Peter were getting married on Peter’s family farm in Devon – after all, it was a free venue with plenty of accommodation for the guests. For the boys, though, it meant a three-hour trip from St. Francis’ on Saturday morning, waking up ridiculously early to catch the first bus to the train station, and an equally arduous return trip on Sunday.

They reckoned it was worth it.

They arrived at the farm late on Saturday morning, and the rest of the day passed in a flurry of introductions, last-minute preparations and a rigorously calculated bathroom schedule to ensure that everyone would be ready on time. The boys would sleep on mattresses in the living room of the main house. Currently, the room was filled with the chaos of six adolescent boys trying to get dressed at once while teasing the others as much as possible.

“Who took my socks?” Michael complained.

“There you go,” Adam yelled, throwing a rolled-up ball of something fluffy and pink at him. Michael retaliated by stealing Adam’s shoes and holding them hostage. Crowley cursed as Wensley mussed up his painstakingly styled hair.

“Does anyone know how to tie this thing?” Brian asked, fumbling with a bow tie. For once he was looking neat and tidy – positively dashing, in fact – in a traditional navy-blue three-piece suit. Aziraphale made quick work of the bow tie, and did such a good job that he ended up having to do everyone’s ties. Crowley knew how to do his own tie, of course – it was part of their school uniform, for someone’s sake – but he would play the idiot if it meant Aziraphale would fuss over him, adjusting the knot and smoothing down his collar. He liked to imagine that his friend lingered a little longer over him than any of the others, even though he knew it was probably just wishful thinking. He did, however, return the favour, making sure Aziraphale’s bowtie was impeccable (it was).

“So, what do you say, Crow-man?” Adam said, striking a pose. “Still think you won’t fall in love with me?”

Crowley had to admit, Adam looked good in his pinstripe suit and red Converse, but, well...

He circled Adam slowly, making a show of inspecting him in detail.

“Hm, not bad,” he finally concluded, “But I’m sorry to say, you’re not quite the prettiest boy in the room.”

Without meaning to, his eyes had drifted over to Aziraphale, who most definitely _was_. No contest whatsoever.

Adam followed his gaze, then snorted out a laugh. “Guess you would say that,” he teased.

“Shut up,” Crowley growled, wondering how much of the truth Adam had guessed. His perceptiveness was really fucking annoying sometimes.

At long last they were all dressed and ready, and with little time to spare, they made their way to the old barn that had been temporarily converted to a wedding venue.

“Pep!” Adam shouted when he caught sight of the crowd. A dark-haired, dark-skinned girl wearing a stunning red pantsuit turned around in response to his call. When she saw who was calling, she came running up, capturing Adam in a hug.

“Sarah didn’t tell me you’d be here!” Adam said, as the girl moved on to hug Wensley and then Brian.

“Who are these guys?” she asked, eyeing the other three boys with a grin. “Your dates?”

“Friends from school,” Brian answered, rolling his eyes at Crowley and Adam, who were acting ridiculous, pretending to be a couple.

“We don’t meet many girls,” Wensley explained. “Wonder why,” he added in a mutter.

Adam pulled himself away from the show he was putting on with Crowley. “Guys, I’d like you to meet Pepper, the fourth member of our little childhood gang. Pepper, this is Crowley, Aziraphale and Michael.” She shook each of them by the hand in turn as they were introduced.

“Didn’t you bring a date?” Adam asked.

“What, with you lot around? I’d never live it down,” she teased. “I’ll hang with you guys tonight,” she said, hooking one arm through Adam’s and one through Brian’s. “Come on, let’s go get a seat.”

The ceremony was nice enough, if a bit long-winded – Crowley found it hard to stay focused when he had no particular emotional investment in the two people at the altar. After that was over, they were all roped in to help move the chairs to the dinner tables, opening up a decently sized dance floor. Sarah had had the foresight to put her brother and his friends together at one table, although Crowley wondered why there were eight chairs and only seven of them.

That mystery, at least, was solved soon enough, when Mrs. Young showed up with a strange, grumpy-looking boy in tow.

“Adam, dear, this is Peter’s cousin Tad-“ “Warlock,” the boy interrupted her. “Right, Warlock,” she said uncertainly. “He’s your age, so we thought he could sit at your table.”

“Sure thing, mom,” Adam said with his usual cheerful demeanour. He turned to Warlock with his hand extended. “I’m Adam, and these are my friends.” Crowley eyed the newcomer as Adam introduced everyone in turn. It seemed pretty clear why the guy wanted to be known as Warlock; he had a strong goth aesthetic going on – well, as much as was possible in a suit (black on black on black, with skulls on his tie). He had piercings in both ears, appeared to have traded the usual dress shoes for a pair of scuffed Doc Martens, and unless Crowley was very much mistaken, he was wearing black eyeliner and mascara. Oh, and his nails were painted black. It was a pretty darn fabulous look, once you got over the initial shock. Reminded him a bit of Bea.

Unfortunately, Warlock seemed to have a goth attitude to match, surly and reticent. He shook their hands, but never spoke or lifted his head, instead glancing at them from under his lashes. Crowley idly wondered whether he was rude or just shy.

“Warlock’s a pretty cool nickname,” Adam said when they were done with the introductions, preventing an awkward silence from taking root. “I’m occasionally known to my friends as Hellspawn. Or the Antichrist, if they’re feeling particularly affectionate. I’m hoping for an upgrade to Satan one of these days.”

This drew a surprised huff of laughter from the dark-haired boy, finally causing him to lift his head and look them full in the face.

Crowley had always admired this ability Adam had to make friends with anyone under any circumstances. It was a special kind of magic, one that drew people to him like moths to a flame. It certainly seemed to be working on Warlock.

“No offense, mate, but you seem far too tame to be any sort of demon,” he said to Adam.

“Oh, just you wait till you get to know me,” Adam retorted with a grin.

“We all have the demerits to prove it,” Michael muttered, drawing a general laugh from the group.

The conversation flowed more easily after that, through the speeches (boring), toasts (at least they had decent champagne, not grape juice as if they were children) and dinner (“simply scrumptious,” according to Aziraphale). They traded stories from their childhood and their antics at school, until eventually even Warlock was doubled over with laughter. By the end of dinner Warlock was chatting away with the rest of the gang as if they’d been friends all their lives.

“I like your earrings,” Adam remarked at one stage. “I’d love to get one, but I think my dad would have a stroke,” he added wistfully.

A mischievous smile played at the corners of Warlock’s mouth. “Just get one where he can’t see it, then,” he suggested. He glanced to the left and right conspirationally, then stuck out his tongue to reveal a silver stud.

“Wicked,” Adam breathed, admiration clear in his voice.

“I’m _so_ getting me one of those when I graduate,” Pepper declared.

“Doesn’t it hurt, though?” Brian asked uncertainly. “Or, like, get in the way when you’re eating?”

“Nah,” Warlock said. “I mean, it hurt when they put it in, until it healed, but not anymore.”

“And snogging? What’s that like with a tongue stud?” Adam asked, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

Warlock smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said with a wink, causing Adam to blush to the roots of his hair. The rest of the group burst into laughter at seeing their usually fearless leader bested for once.

At last all the formalities were over, and it was time to open the dance floor and get the _real_ party started. It took Crowley all of two seconds to recognise the opening strains of [David Bowie’s ‘Let’s dance’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbD_kBJc_gI). Perfect song to get everyone in the mood! He jumped up out of his chair, Adam already doing the same.

“Come on, guys!” he said. “You heard the man! Let’s dance!”

Adam’s friends were well used to these sorts of shenanigans, but Warlock took some convincing. Surprisingly, Aziraphale took even more.

“C’mon, Az,” Crowley pleaded. “It’s Bowie. You can’t _not_ dance to Bowie.”

“Crowley, I can’t dance at all!” Aziraphale protested, laughing.

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley insisted. “You can’t look much worse than the rest of us.”

They looked to the dance floor where, indeed, their friends were making a ridiculous spectacle, but no-one cared and everyone seemed to be having fun. “See,” Crowley prodded. “They all dance like drunken monkeys.”

“Oh, all right,” Aziraphale relented, “But you owe me.”

“Name your price, Angel,” Crowley said, leading the way to the dance floor.

Aziraphale really hadn’t been joking about his inability to dance. He was as stiff as a Buckingham Palace guard, and seemed entirely baffled by the lack of pre-defined steps. He gave it a good try, though, helped along by the wine they’d had with supper, and before long he was laughing along with the rest of the gang. Man, Crowley loved seeing him laugh; he outshone all the DJ’s disco lights.

The next song to play was the [Time Warp](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=umj0gu5nEGs), and they wasted no time in teaching Aziraphale the steps for the chorus. He really seemed to enjoy that bit, where there was at least a bit of structure to the dance.

The next song was a slow one, so they decided to go get some refreshments. Not that Crowley would have turned down a slow dance with a certain beautiful blonde roommate of his, but perhaps this wasn’t the time.

They grabbed a handful of Cokes from the bar and flopped down at the table, laughing and still a bit out of breath. Adam joined them a few minutes later bearing a tray of shot glasses.

“What’s that?” Michael asked suspiciously.

“B-52’s, compliments of my new brother-in-law,” Adam replied.

“Ooh, yay!” Pepper clapped her hands. “My favourite!”

Adam distributed the shots, and Aziraphale held his up to the light. “This is so pretty,” he said delightedly. “What is it?”

“Kahlua, Baileys and Cointreau,” Pepper answered.

“And that is...?” Aziraphale prodded.

“Coffee liqueur, whiskey cream, and some sort of orangey thing,” Crowley interpreted.

“”Hmm, sounds yummy!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“Whoa, angel,” Crowley said when Aziraphale moved to take a sip. “It’s a shot. You take it in one mouthful.”

“Right. As a group,” Adam said. He raised his glass. “To Sarah and Peter!” Three, two one, go!”

“Ooh, that’s nice,” Aziraphale said. “Can we get another?”

“You wanna be careful with those, mate,” Warlock laughed. “They may taste like pudding, but overdo it and they’ll give you a hangover like drinking paint stripper.”

A familiar song intro played over the speakers. “It’s our song!” Crowley squealed at Aziraphale, as Freddie crooned _‘[Ooh, you make me live](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaZpZQG2z10).’_ “Come on, Az, we _have to_ dance to this one!” He grabbed his roommate by the arm and unceremoniously dragged him to the dance floor.

The alcohol must have gone to Aziraphale’s head, because he didn’t put up even a token protest, just followed Crowley with a laugh, already singing as they walked. The rest of the gang also followed, of course, but Crowley paid them no heed; this song was just for him and his best friend.

Since the first time he’d played the song for Aziraphale all those months ago, they’d listened to (and sung) it together enough times that they were both word-perfect on the lyrics. The not-at-all-platonic declarations had become something of an inside joke for them. Or at least, he assumed it was a joke for Aziraphale; he found himself meaning them more with every passing month. They half-danced, half-mimed as they sang along, pulling out all the stops like the dramatic clowns that they were. _‘I really love yoooooou’_ they both sang with dramatic flourish; Aziraphale with his hands pressed his heart and Crowley dropping to his knee with one arm outstretched like a Shakespearean actor in mid-soliloquy.

By the end of the song they were all laughing so hard that they could barely remain standing up. Queen was followed by the Village People, and they all did an enthusiastic rendition of the [YMCA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CS9OO0S5w2k), and after that things got a little more freestyle.

Aziraphale poked his shoulder after a few more dances, saying “I need a drink.”

“Good idea,” Crowley agreed. “Could use a smoke too. Oi, Adam!” he yelled, catching the other boy’s attention. Trying to speak over the music was a lost cause, so he mimed smoking a cigarette. Adam nodded and turned to speak to the others near him. Crowley saw Warlock nod and Michael shake his head. Wensley was deep in discussion with Mr. Young, not really being the dancing type, and Brian was nowhere to be seen.

The four boys made their way outside and around the back of the barn, looking for a spot where they wouldn’t be seen by Adam’s family.

“Where’s Brian gone off to?” Aziraphale asked as they walked.

“Last I saw, him and Pepper were dancing together. But that was two or three songs ago, now that you mention it.”

They got their answer as they rounded the corner of the barn and discovered Brian. And Pepper. Or, as it were, Brian-and-Pepper, so caught up in a game of tongue wrestling that they hadn’t even noticed their new audience.

“Oi!” Adam yelled, causing both of them to jump about a foot into the air, and Brian to fall over backward on his arse. Adam burst out laughing, extremely gratified at the reaction he’d gotten.

“Sorry,” he said, still sniggering as he held out a hand to help Brian up. “Couldn’t resist. Smoke?”

“Um, did I miss something?” Crowley asked. “How long has this been going on?”

“Oh, about... ten minutes?” Pepper said, making a show of checking her watch.

Adam snorted. “Sure, if you don’t count Brian’s pining that I’ve been putting up with since God-knows-when.”

“Shut up, Satan,” Brian snarled, but without any real heat. Embarrassment and joy were warring on his face, but when Pepper leaned over and kissed his cheek with an “Aw, that’s so sweet,” joy won out.

“Well, that was a thing,” Crowley remarked to Aziraphale when the conversation had wandered off into other topics. They were leaning against the wall of the barn a little bit back from the rest of the group.

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed. “Looks like you were teasing the wrong guy about not kissing his date.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “I don’t care who Adam kisses, long as it’s not me.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, a shade uncomfortably. After a few beats, he added, “Have you ever? Kissed a girl, that is.”

“Sure,” Crowley shrugged. The last few summer holidays had had their share of fun, although it never lasted longer than that. “Haven’t you?”

“No,” Aziraphale admitted. “Never really saw the point.”

“What, of kissing?” Crowley asked, incredulous. That would be a disaster; his lips looked just _perfect_ for kissing.

“Well, no. Sort of. Just the whole... girls thing. Never really wanted a girlfriend, if I’m honest.”

“Huh,” Crowley said, mulling over this information. Aziraphale had specifically said he didn’t want a girlfriend, and Crowley wondered whether it was deliberate – was he hinting that he would prefer a boyfriend? Or was Crowley just projecting his own wishful thinking on the conversation? Before he could get a chance to ask, though, Adam was there, dragging them back to the party. He made a mental note to pick it up later.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of dancing and laughing. Before they knew it, midnight was imminent, and the DJ announced the last song. “Come on, let’s get everyone on the dance floor for the [Last Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vf4mWO06wlw),” he urged over the mic.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Care to waltz, angel?” he asked as the music started, not really expecting a yes.

“Okay,” Aziraphale agreed with a smile. “But you’ll have to lead.”

“Of course. I’ve seen you dance.”

He just laughed at Aziraphale’s indignant spluttering, and grabbed his hand to pull him close. “If I’m leading, I’ll dance the man’s part,” he said, lifting his left hand and placing his right hand firmly on Aziraphale’s hip. They managed to get themselves sorted out as the first chorus started.

_I had the last waltz with you,_

_Two lonely people together._

_I fell in love with you,_

_The last waltz should last forever._

Crowley hummed along, enjoying the sultry tones of Engelbert Humperdinck’s voice and trying not to think too much about the lyrics. Despite his teasing, Aziraphale was actually a decent dancer; perhaps he just needed the steps laid out for him.

The fact that they weren’t the only strange couple on the dance floor also helped him relax and just enjoy it. Almost everyone had heeded the DJ’s call to join the last dance, and the dance floor was packed. Brian and Pepper were dancing together, of course, although they had abandoned all pretence of choreography and were simply swaying in an embrace. Adam and Warlock had teamed up, presumably because no other magic on earth could persuade a goth boy to waltz to an old 60’s ballad. Surprisingly, the goth boy in question actually seemed to be enjoying it, giggling along with Adam although he clearly didn’t know the steps; that was Adam’s magic for you. Being the only two left, Michael and Wensley had paired up, and were keeping as far apart as it was possible to do while still dancing together. They definitely looked the most ridiculous out of all of them.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley’s attention back to him.

“I’m a musician, I have rhythm,” Crowley responded with a smirk.

“Yes, but the waltz strikes me as a bit eighteenth-century for your tastes,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley leaned closer, dropping his voice so that only Aziraphale could hear him. “Oh, I’m full of surprises, Angel.”

“Are you, now?” Aziraphale said, giving him an odd sort of look.

“M-hm,” Crowley hummed, holding his eye as he softly sang along to the last few lines.

_I fell in love with you,_

_The last waltz should last forever._

He pulled Aziraphale into a quick turn on the last ‘lalalalalala’ and ended it up by dipping him, making sure he had a good grip so that his friend didn’t fall on the floor. Aziraphale was giggling as he pulled him back up to standing.

“Full of surprises, indeed,” he chuckled. Crowley was pleased as punch.

\--

Crowley became aware of a number of sensations as he woke up the next morning. The first was a beam of sunlight lancing into his left eye with the precision of a laser beam – probably what had woken him up in the first place. The second was the soft sound of snoring coming from behind him, less than a foot away. His sense of touch weighed in next, reporting an unusual warmth pressing against his back, and what felt like an arm resting on his side. He turned his head back, catching a glimpse of blonde curls over his shoulder – Aziraphale. Okay. How had he ended up here?

He remembered coming to bed at some godawful hour of the early morning, exhausted and still slightly tipsy, but he definitely remembered going to sleep on the airbed next to Az’s mattress. He glanced over to it, and saw that it was devoid of pillow and blanket, and entirely flat.

Ah, yes, that was it. He vaguely remembered waking up in the middle of the night to find his hip aching from lying on the hard ground; the airbed having deflated at some point. He must have grabbed his stuff and rolled over onto the next mattress, which of course happened to be Aziraphale’s. He wasn’t sure at which point his roommate decided to play the big spoon, or whether he was even aware that he was doing it, but he wasn’t about to complain. He buried his face into the pillow to escape the vindictive sunbeam and let himself drift back to sleep, feeling warm and safe and more comfortable than he had in ages.

It couldn’t have been too much later – that awful sunbeam was still on his face – when he heard Aziraphale behind him. “Crowley! Wake up!” he insisted, poking him in the ribs.

“Wstfgl?” Crowley muttered, trying to turn around.

“What the hell are you doing in my bed?” Aziraphale hissed.

“Oh, sorry. Mine got flat,” Crowley explained, gesturing over his shoulder. “Yours was the next closest mattress.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, seeing the deflated airbed. “Okay then.”

“I think the real question is, why were you cuddling me like I was your favourite teddy bear?” Crowley teased.

“Oh, Lord,” Aziraphale moaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be,” Crowley said. “’s kinda nice, actually,” he admitted. “You’re warm. And soft. Much better than the floor.”

There was a heartfelt groan from the other side of the room. “Fuck, my head,” came Brian’s voice.

“How much did you drink last night, Bri?” Crowley asked. He certainly hadn’t had enough to suffer any aftereffects.

“Maybe a bit too much,” Brian admitted. “Liquid courage and all that. Worth it, though,” he said with a smile as he recalled the events of the party.

“Shut. The fuck. Up,” came Michael’s voice. A chorus of yawns and shuffling noises heralded the rest of them waking up.

“I think,” Adam said, with the determined expression of one who only had about 15% of their brain cells online, “I need coffee.”

“Amen to that,” Crowley seconded.

Breakfast was a rather subdued affair, with all the guests suffering the aftereffects of the late night and the open bar, and before they knew it they were on the train, on their way back to Tadfield. Crowley watched the green fields rolling past outside the window, struggling to keep his eyes open. He could really, really use a nap. He tried wedging his head into the corner between the back of his seat and the window, using his bundled-up jacket as a makeshift pillow. Not terribly comfortable, but it would do. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

“Wouldn’t you rather lie down?” came Aziraphale’s voice from next to him.

Crowley cracked an eye open. “Well, sure. Let me just pull out the mattress I have in my back pocket,” he grumbled.

“No silly,” Aziraphale said, and patted his lap. “Bet I’m softer than the window. If we switch places, you can even lie with your legs out in the aisle.”

Oh. Well, that did sound much better. They traded places, and Crowley lay down, resting his head on Aziraphale’s thigh. Soft, just like he knew it would be. Warm. Smelling like... well, like Aziraphale, he guessed.

“Thanks, angel,” he murmured. “This is way better.”

“I’m glad,” Aziraphale said with a soft smile, opening up the book he’d been reading. “Now get some rest.” Crowley hummed and closed his eyes, wriggling around a bit until he was comfortable. A few moments later, he felt Aziraphale’s hand on his head, fingertips scratching gently against his scalp. He pressed into the touch with a contented little noise, certain that if he were a cat, he would be purring. This was turning into the best fucking train ride ever. He tried to stay awake just to savour the closeness, but the swaying of the train and Aziraphale’s gentle touches soon lulled him to sleep. And while he was lost in slumber, he missed the soft smiles and wistful looks that Aziraphale gave him every few minutes, missed the gentle way in which his friend’s fingers ghosted over his hairline, his jaw, the shell of his ear. It may have cleared a few things up for him, if he’d been awake to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the links to YouTube videos of all the songs they dance to:
> 
>   * David Bowie – Let’s dance! <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbD_kBJc_gI>
>   * The Time Warp: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=umj0gu5nEGs>
>   * You’re my best friend (yes, this is a recurring theme) <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaZpZQG2z10>
>   * YMCA by the Village People: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CS9OO0S5w2k>
>   * The Last Waltz: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vf4mWO06wlw>
> 



	8. March 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's springtime, and our boys are in loooooove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one we've been waiting for 😁
> 
> Music is linked in the text and in the end notes.
> 
> Also, apropos of nothing, this chapter takes place in the month I was born 😋

February rolled into March, and winter finally began to loosen its grip on Tadfield. And for the first time in his life, Aziraphale thought he might understand the concept of spring fever – specifically, the kind of spring fever that led the birds that infested the school grounds to start building nests and courting mates.

Not that springtime had anything to do with it. Not really. His little crush on his roommate had been simmering for months now, somewhere just below the level of his conscious mind where he could ignore it most of the time. The problem was just that while his feelings had been quietly bubbling away, they had also been growing, and they were intruding on his thoughts more and more often.

More than once, Aziraphale had caught himself staring at Crowley as he talked, just watching his lips and wondering what they would feel like. When he read a romantic story or heard a love song playing, it was Crowley’s face that arose in his mind. At night, he found himself listening to Crowley’s breathing, memorising the cadence of it, wishing away the few scant feet between their beds. That one morning in Devon, when he’d woken up with Crowley next to him, had burned itself into his memory like a brand, and he missed it with every fibre of his being.

But he daren’t do anything about it. He remembered only too well the nonchalant way Crowley had responded to his question about kissing girls, as if it were something he did all the time. Clearly, he just didn’t swing that way. So he would have to be content with longing from a respectable distance, enjoying Crowley’s company and his jokes and being called _Angel_. Which was fine. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

The problem was that Crowley wasn’t exactly making it easy for him. Not deliberately, of course – they shared a tiny room, so close physical proximity was inevitable. But nonetheless, it was slowly driving him insane. Sometimes it felt like Crowley was teasing him, trying to see exactly how far he could push Aziraphale before his sanity gave way. The hugs and casual touches and whispered goodnights were threatening to undo him. Aziraphale found himself wondering if Crowley had become more affectionate as the months passed, or if he was just noticing it more. Either way, it was a full-time job to keep reminding himself that none of it meant anything beyond friendship.

He allowed himself only one outlet for all those feelings: a secret notebook (carefully hidden at all times) where he scribbled down his dreams and wishes in desperate snatches of poetry. It was a guilty little secret, something he only indulged in when he was alone; he would never live it down if anyone else were to discover it. It helped a little, to put his thoughts on paper. Like the safety valve on a pressure cooker, it let allowed him to blow off just enough steam to prevent an ugly explosion. It wasn’t the real thing, wasn’t speaking those words aloud and having them reciprocated – but it was enough.

It had to be.

\--

“Let’s go down to the lake,” Crowley suggested one Saturday morning.

“Don’t tempt me,” Aziraphale said. “You know we have a history test on Monday. We need to study.”

“So we’ll take our books,” Crowley retorted. “Come on, it’s the first sunny day we’ve had in weeks; we should take advantage of it. We could even take a picnic, maybe.”

“Oh, okay,” Aziraphale relented. Crowley knew his weaknesses too well; he could never say no to a picnic. “Shall we go tell the rest of the gang?”

“Actually, I was thinking just the two of us,” Crowley said. “Need a break from those maniacs. It’s impossible to study if the whole circus is there.”

“All right then,” Aziraphale agreed. Picnics were great, but a picnic with his best friend and secret crush? Even better. Well, as long as he didn’t do anything stupid, and he was well practiced in that by now.

It didn’t take them long to pack their history textbooks, a blanket and some snacks. In addition to those essentials, Crowley insisted on taking his Walkman and some tapes, and Aziraphale packed a new poetry book – just in case he wanted a break from studying.

Many of St. Francis’s students had decided to take advantage of the sunny weather, it seemed; the lawns surrounding the school building were dotted with boys playing all sorts of games, or just lounging around in the sunshine. Crowley and Aziraphale walked on past them, toward the lake that sat at one of the borders of the school property. In a few weeks it would be crowded with people as the rowing teams started training for the season, but for now it was almost deserted.

When they reached the lake they turned and walked along the shore for a while, in unspoken agreement that they wanted to get as far out of sight of the school buildings as possible. Right at the one edge of the school property, where a river fed into the lake, was a small copse of trees, tucked away from the school itself behind a small hill. In the summer, the clearing was carpeted in green; for now, the dead grass made for a soft surface to spread their blanket on. It was a perfect spot to escape from the bustle of school. They settled down, got comfortable and pulled out their books.

After about an hour and a half of studying, Crowley decided he’d had enough and pulled out his Walkman. He put his headphones on and stretched himself out on the blanket, lying on his back and using his history book as a pillow. His head was right by Aziraphale’s knee, so without really thinking, he reached out and ruffled Crowley’s hair. “Lazy bugger,” he murmured fondly.

“Hmm, do that again,” Crowley said, flipping his headphones down to get the headband out of the way. Aziraphale chuckled softly, but kept running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, thrilled at the contact. Crowley seemed just as pleased, humming and leaning into the touch. Seems he really liked having his scalp scratched.

Needless to say, this did not do wonders for Aziraphale’s concentration. After several minutes of trying to focus on the details of the Russian revolution, he gave up and pulled out his book. He needed a break anyway.

Crowley looked up at the movement. Seeing the book in Aziraphale’s hand, he cocked one eyebrow and asked “Spock? You into sci-fi now?”

“What?” Aziraphale was thoroughly confused by this question. The book was a narrative poem, not some story about aliens and whatnot.

Crowley pointed at the photo of the author. “Leonard Nimoy. He plays Mr Spock.” Seeing Aziraphale’s confusion, he went on. “Star Trek? Live long and prosper?” Crowley made a strange gesture with his hand, splitting his fingers down the middle so that his hand formed a v-shape. “Any of this ring a bell?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said. “I bought this for the poetry.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Crowley said. “Who’d’ve thought Spock was a poet? I wonder if it’s any good.”

“Let’s see,” Aziraphale said, and started to read aloud.

_Will I think of you?_

_Only at sunrise, which is God’s beginning_

_For you were there at the beginning of me_

_When I came alive and discovered my place, my worth,_

_The beauty of the earth_

_And the miracle of daybreak once again_

_And the richness of mornings to come_

Crowley had lain back down, eyes closed. “Should I carry on?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hmm,” Crowley affirmed. He butted his head against Aziraphale’s leg in exactly the manner of a cat asking for a scratch, and Aziraphale took the hint, carding his fingers through Crowley’s fiery red hair again.

_Only in the morning,_

_Each time the darkness of past is chased by the light of now_

_Will I think of you..._

_Only then_

_Only at night,_

_Where the silence and the blackness is touched occasionally_

_By a lonely cat, or a suspicious puppy_

_A passing plane, red eye winking_

_To the stars, who refuse to be seduced_

_When I hear your whispered love in the tree rustle_

_When I feel your secret hand exploring me, drifting across my skin_

_To rest in a friendly harbour_

_And my mind tells me I am alone_

_But my heart knows better_

_Only then_

_will I think_

_of you_

“That’s pretty good,” Crowley said, eyes still closed. Aziraphale was grateful for that, at least; he was sure reading those words out loud to Crowley had left him blushing. _Your secret hand exploring me, drifting across my skin_ , indeed. This could get embarrassing if Crowley were to see his face. Nonetheless, Crowley wanted to hear it, so he read on.

Page after page flowed by, the poet explaining how he would _only_ think of his beloved when it snowed, when it rained, when the rain stopped, when it was cold and when the cold finally gave way to spring; when he was joyous and sad; when he laughed and cried; at different times and in different places. By the time they were halfway through, it was already clear that he was thinking of the object of his affections almost constantly, while maintaining it only happened when something specific triggered a memory. It was endearing and a little too relatable for Aziraphale’s taste.

Finally he made it to the last page:

_Only when we’re together_

_And I can think of nothing else_

_And everything else, because we together are everything_

_And our togetherness is all things_

_Then as always and forever_

_I will think of you_

Aziraphale closed the book reverently. Poetry always made him a bit emotional, but this one had been particularly rough – seeing as he was basically speaking his deepest secret aloud to the object of that secret. But he took some comfort in the knowledge that Crowley had no idea.

Crowley was looking up at him with something unreadable in his expression. “You ever been in love like that, angel?” he asked.

_Oh no!_ How to answer that without giving too much away? He decided that deflection was his best option. “Why, have you?”

“Once,” Crowley answered, lying back and looking up at the sky, where clouds were gathering. “It’s strange, isn’t it. How one person can consume your thoughts so completely that every single thing reminds you of them. How you can long for someone even when they’re right there next to you, because they’re not yours.”

“It is,” Aziraphale answered softly. Oh, didn’t he just know it. It broke his heart a little to know that his secret love felt that way about someone else, but then, Crowley had never been his and never would be. “Who’s the lucky girl?” he asked.

“Oh. Um.” Crowley looked away nervously, suddenly fascinated by his own fingernails. “Not... not a girl,” he mumbled.

This revelation knocked Aziraphale’s mental feet out from under him. Crowley was in love with a boy? Who was it? Was it someone at school? He tried to think who Crowley had been spending time with lately, but came up a blank – when they weren’t all together as a group, his roommate rarely hung out with anyone other than him.

Before he could ask any more, however, they were interrupted by the sound of voices approaching over the hill – a man and a woman, by the sound of it. Before long, the owners of said voices came into view: Dr Device and Mr Pulsifer.

“Hello, boys,” Dr Device said when they drew near enough. “Enjoying the sunshine?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Crowley said.

“Well, I hope you’re doing more with that textbook than using it as a pillow, young man,” she scolded, but the smile on her face made it clear that she was just teasing.

“It’s my new study method,” Crowley teased back. “The knowledge moves into my brain by osmosis.”

This pulled a laugh from the young teacher. “Oh, well then, we’d better leave you to it,” she said, as they turned to continue on their way. “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t approve of,” she called over her shoulder.

“That’s not a very long list, An,” Mr Pulsifer said with a smile, and her laugh tinkled out again.

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other. “An?” Aziraphale said with a giggle.

“Oh, there’s _so_ something going on between those two!” Crowley said gleefully. “No wonder he’s always hanging around her.”

“It’s sweet, really,” Aziraphale said. “Did you see the way he looks at her?”

“Totally gone,” Crowley agreed. “I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”

_Yes, well,_ Aziraphale thought to himself, _maybe it’s a good thing that you can’t spot a lovesick puppy; you might just spot me._

Keen to avoid any further conversations on the topic of romance and being in love, Aziraphale decided to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“What are you listening to today?” he asked, gesturing at Crowley’s cassette player.

“It’s a mix tape,” Crowley said. “I raided Luke’s music collection in the holidays; guy has some awesome albums. Wanna hear?”

“Sure,” Aziraphale said, settling down next to Crowley.

Unsurprisingly, it was rock music, the sort of drums-and-guitars stuff that Crowley seemed to like. Aziraphale closed his eyes and listened to the lyrics.

_If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you. When mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me._

“[Led Zep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1z4vkPWkLQ),” Crowley said. “Plant wrote it to his wife. It was the first of their songs where he wrote all the lyrics.” Yep, that was Crowley – a walking encyclopaedia of music trivia.

Aziraphale had to admit that it was a pretty nice song, much more chilled than Crowley’s usual rock music. The whole tape seemed to follow that trend, in fact – softer, slower songs, all of the in some way about love, the lyrics possibly calculated to rip Aziraphale’s heart right out of his chest.

_Wise men say only fools rush in,_ [Elvis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGJTaP6anOU) was crooning (yes, Aziraphale could at least recognise Elvis, he wasn’t that out of touch); _but I can’t help falling in love with you. Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?_ Well, now, that was a question, wasn’t it? Aziraphale knew what his parents, his teachers, his church would say to that, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to agree. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to let his thoughts show on his face.

Elvis was followed by [the Beatles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jenWdylTtzs), which was at least a bit more cheerful. Aziraphale found himself humming along to the _I wanna hold your hand_ bits. Crowley must have heard him, because he turned his head and grinned at Aziraphale. “I wanna hold your hand,” he sang along with a grin, the way he always did, rolling right into the next verse. “Oh please, say to me, you'll let me be your man; And please, say to me, you'll let me hold your hand.”

Aziraphale fought to keep smiling normally as Crowley sang those words while looking him straight in the eyes. It was just a joke, just singing together like they always did, but oh how he wished it were for real.

He must have lost control of his expression, because Crowley clicked off the music, propping himself up on his elbow. “Angel?” he asked. “Everything okay?”

Aziraphale looked away. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“C’mon Az, I know you better than that,” Crowley said sceptically. “You looked like you were about to start crying.”

“Just the effect of the music,” Aziraphale said tightly. “Please, just drop it, okay? Let’s keep listening.”

Crowley hesitated for a long moment, but then he relented, and the Beatles resumed their crooning. Aziraphale still had his eyes squeezed shut, so he was caught off guard when Crowley sang softly right by his ear, “I wanna hold your hand.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open. “Stop teasing me!” he said, a little annoyed.

“Teasing?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, teasing,” Aziraphale said. “Being all... all flirty and _‘I wanna hold your hand’_ when you don’t really.”

Aziraphale expected Crowley to laugh it off. Maybe apologise. What he didn’t expect was the soft, “Who says I don’t?”

This was enough to get Aziraphale to turn and look at him. “Are you saying you do?” he asked, hardly daring to believe it was possible.

“Is that... is it okay?” Crowley said, looking a little terrified. “I mean... I... Oh, just forget I said anything.” He flopped onto his back and flung one arm dramatically over his face.

Oh no, now, that wouldn’t do. Gathering his courage, praying to every god he could think of that he hadn’t misread the situation, Aziraphale reached out to take his best friend’s hand. Crowley turned back to face him at the contact, his eyes wide. “It’s okay,” Aziraphale reassured him with a small smile and a squeeze of his hand.

Crowley’s answering smile could have lit up a room. “Okay, then,” he said, squeezing back. When he clicked the music back on, Aziraphale couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the aptness of the lyrics. _And when I touch you I feel happy inside..._

They lay there, holding hands and listening to music until they finished the tape. They didn’t speak any more, each lost in his own thoughts, but whenever a line resonated with either of them they would squeeze the other’s hand. Since the whole tape was full of love songs, there was a lot of hand squeezing going on. Neither boy minded.

“I guess we should head back,” Aziraphale remarked when they reached the end of the tape. He didn’t particularly want to let go of Crowley’s hand, but it was almost dinner time and it wouldn’t do to be missed. They reluctantly packed up the remnants of their picnic and headed back to the school building.

Aziraphale was quietly panicking all through dinner, not that anyone would have known it; he made a point of eating and talking with the others as he always did. But inside, his thoughts were in turmoil about what had happened that afternoon. He had spent the best part of an hour lying out on a picnic blanket, holding hands with Crowley, which was heavenly, but nothing further had been said about it. The handholding had lasted only as long as the music did; once they’d let go to come back to school, things had gone back to the way they always were, a carefully platonic distance between them.

He was worried that it had just been a once-off thing; that Crowley had just wanted a bit of friendly contact and nothing more. He was desperate to know what it had meant to the other boy, but at the same time, he was terrified to ask. What if that was it, if that was all he would ever get? He could hardly stand the thought.

His thoughts were still spiralling by the time they made their way back to their room. Aziraphale stood by his desk, nervously fiddling with a pen, as Crowley closed the door behind him. A gentle hand on his arm pulled him back down to earth. “Angel?” Crowley’s voice came. “I think we need to talk about this afternoon.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said dumbly, as he let himself be led to the bed. _We need to talk_ was never a good sign, was it?

“I... um,” Crowley began. “Wow. I have no idea how to do this.”

Crowley looked nervous as anything, and Aziraphale felt his heart sink. Of course, he’d be wanting to find a way out of whatever they were getting themselves into. What else had he expected.

Aziraphale looked down, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “It’s okay,” he said, wanting to make it easier on his friend. “You don’t have to say any more. It was nothing, right?” The words burned like acid on his tongue.

“Nothing?” Crowley said, and his voice was pained enough that Aziraphale looked up.

“Wasn’t it?” Aziraphale asked, not daring to hope.

“Not for me, no,” Crowley said. “Not by a long shot.”

“What was it then?” Aziraphale asked.

“See, that’s the difficult part,” Crowley said, flopping back to lean against the wall. “Because you’re my best friend, Az, and my roommate, and I’d hate for things to get weird between us just because... because...” Crowley seemed to be struggling to say what was on his mind. Aziraphale did the only thing he could think of, and took his friend’s hand.

“Because what, my dear?” he asked softly, trying to put as much comfort and acceptance into his voice as he could. “You should know, I’ll always be your friend, no matter what. You couldn’t say anything that would drive me away.”

“Really?” Crowley said. “What if I told you I’ve had the biggest crush on you since, oh, about a week after you moved in?”

Aziraphale brought a hand up to cover his mouth, at a total loss for words.

“See?” Crowley said. “I’ve made it weird. Just forget I said that, okay?”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Aziraphale retorted, finally finding his voice. “No way.”

“No?” Crowley asked. “Why not?”

“Because, you muppet,” Aziraphale took a deep breath. This was it, then. “You’re not the only one in this room with a crush on his roommate.”

Crowley’s face brightened at those words. “Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Aziraphale confirmed.

“Oh, _Angel_!” Crowley’s smile was back at full power, and the next moment Aziraphale found himself surrounded by long arms. He laughed as he returned the hug.

“I’m glad we finally got that out in the open,” he said with a soft chuckle.

“Me too, Angel,” Crowley said against his hair. “ _My_ Angel.” And Aziraphale could hear the smile in those words.

There would still be plenty of things to discuss and agree on – they still shared a room, after all, and in a school where they were definitely _not_ allowed to be getting romantic. But for now, this was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Will I think of you?”_ is a real book (published 1974) that I found in a second-hand bookshop once. It has a photo of Nimoy on the cover – sans pointy ears and funny eyebrows, but still recognisably Spock for anyone who knows Star Trek. I was pleasantly surprised by the poetry; it’s beautifully wistful. Worth checking out if you can ever get your hands on a copy.
> 
> Also, who remembers making mix tapes? Or am I giving away my age here?
> 
> Look, Crowley is a hopeless romantic who gets soppy when he’s in love. He’s exactly the type who would make a mix tape of ‘songs to feel sorry for myself to while pining for my best friend’. Hence: Songs they’re listening to:
> 
>   * Led Zep – Thank you: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1z4vkPWkLQ>
>   * Elvis – Can’t help falling in love <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGJTaP6anOU>
>   * The Beatles – I wanna hold your hand <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jenWdylTtzs>
> 

> 
> I also like to imagine they included Foreigner’s [I wanna know what love is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raNGeq3_DtM), the Beach Boys’ [God only knows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNOHyGP7thk) and of course, [You’re my best friend](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaZpZQG2z10). Feel free to make your own list for the rest.


	9. April 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets the opportunity of a lifetime, and has an epic fight with his father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keen-eyed readers will spot some lines from Dead Poets Society in this chapter 😜

Crowley was at home, and like always he felt like he was in a cage. It was Easter Sunday, which meant it was three days since the school holidays started – three days since he last saw his boyfriend (and oh, how that word thrilled him!)

He thought back to the first time he’d allowed himself to think of Aziraphale as his boyfriend, to say it out loud; almost a month ago now. What a day that had been.

He still didn’t know what had possessed him to tell Aziraphale that he wanted to hold his hand, but boy he was glad he did. It really shouldn’t feel so amazing just to hold someone’s hand, and it wasn’t as if he’d never touched Aziraphale before, but for some reason that moment when Aziraphale first wove their fingers together was something magical. The memory made a warm feeling flare up in his chest.

It had been an immense relief to find out that Aziraphale was on the same page as him – that is, the page where they could be more than just roommates or even best friends.

“So, does that mean you’re my boyfriend?” he’d asked teasingly, from where he was wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms.

“Depends,” Aziraphale had said hesitantly. “Do you want me to be?”

Crowley could hear the wavering in Aziraphale’s voice, as if he thought this was all just a joke that would backfire on him any moment. He couldn’t have his angel doubting his intentions, so he’d pulled back and fixed him with an earnest look. “Aziraphale,” he’d said, “Angel. I’m absolutely mad about you. Would you please, please be my boyfriend?” And Aziraphale had smiled and blushed so prettily, and nodded his assent.

They hadn’t kissed that night, just hugged and held hands as they snuggled side-by-side on Crowley’s bed, Aziraphale reading and Crowley quite content just to doze next to him. Their first kiss only happened almost a week later.

Crowley had been sitting at his desk, finishing off some maths homework, when Aziraphale came in. He had just had a shower, and his cheeks were flushed, his hair damp and curling up in all directions. He looked absolutely adorable.

They had never been in the habit of showering at the same time, and Crowley knew they certainly shouldn’t start now, not if Aziraphale was going to go around looking so damn kissable. It was a familiar thought, one he’d had just about every time he caught Aziraphale on his way back from a shower, but with a jolt he realised that this time he could actually do something about it.

“Hey, angel?” he said.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale replied distractedly, packing away his toiletries.

“You’re gorgeous,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled shyly and looked down at his feet. “Do you really think so?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Crowley said, getting up and walking over to him. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Here, look at me.” He placed one hand on Aziraphale’s cheek and gently turned his face toward him. “Beautiful,” he whispered, moving closer. He stopped just short of Aziraphale’s lips.

“Okay?” he asked, not wanting to ruin things by moving too fast or doing something his boyfriend wasn’t ready for. He needn’t have worried, though – Aziraphale immediately leaned forward, pushing up on tiptoes to press their lips together briefly.

“More than,” Aziraphale said, pulling back only the slightest bit.

With permission granted, and having had one teasing taste, Crowley dove right back in, sliding his hand around to the back of Aziraphale’s head and bringing their mouths together. It was the softest, sweetest kiss he could ever remember having, Aziraphale’s lips moving gently against his own, those lips he’d so often longed to touch. Nothing he had imagined or dreamed about had prepared him for the reality, and he drank it in, memorising every sensation.

After an eternity and no time at all, Aziraphale pulled away, flushed and slightly out of breath. “That was wonderful,” he whispered.

“Incredible,” Crowley agreed.

There had been many more kisses in the days and weeks that followed, and it didn’t get any less magical. They had to force themselves to go to the library for homework and studying, because once the door was closed, their attention was most decidedly not on schoolwork. The edges of Crowley’s days were filled with soft kisses and gentle touches – and a few rather steamy make-out sessions – and he couldn’t be happier.

But now it had been three days – the longest three days of his life; honestly, when had three days started to feel like a hundred years? – and he was suffering from acute Aziraphale withdrawal. The Feltons celebrated Easter at church, because of course they did, so they hadn’t seen each other since the holidays started. But at least they would both be at home for the rest of the school holidays, so they could meet up as often as they liked – which, if Crowley had his way, would be every single day.

They had arranged to spend the day together tomorrow, and Crowley could hardly wait. He was so used to seeing Aziraphale every day that three days apart felt like an unreasonably long time.

“Anthony! Phone!” came his mother’s voice.

Crowley wondered who it could be. Aziraphale? Or maybe one of his other friends?

“Who is it?” he asked his mother as he passed her on the way to the phone, but she just shrugged.

“Hello?” he asked.

“Hey, Crowley. It’s Luke.” Well, that was a surprise, albeit a pleasant one.

“Luke! Hi! How you doing?” he asked.

“Not bad,” Luke said. “But I have a problem. Was hoping you could help.”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“It’s Liam,” Luke said. “He had an accident in the workshop today.”

“Oh, shit, is he okay?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah, but he cracked his wrist. Gonna be in a cast for a month or two.”

“Bummer,” Crowley sympathised. Not great for a guitarist.

“The thing is,” Luke went on, “MorningStar’s entered in a big Battle of the Bands next month, and it doesn’t look like he’ll be able to play by then. Do you think you could stand in?”

“Let me get this straight,” Crowley said, not sure he was hearing right. “You want me to play in Liam’s place in this competition? Like, on stage?”

“Yeah,” Luke said. “You up for it?”

“Oh, you bet I am,” Crowley said, excitement welling up in his chest.

“Great, I knew we could count on you!” Crowley could hear Luke’s smile through the phone. “Practice at Damon’s place at noon tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Crowley said, and then remembered that he already had plans for tomorrow. “Oh wait, shit. I was supposed to hang out with Aziraphale tomorrow. Can I bring him along?”

“The guy who was at the concert with you?” Luke asked. “Sure, I guess. Bea will probably be there too; they can amuse each other while we practice.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Crowley said. “See you tomorrow, then,”

“See you,” Luke said, and hung up.

Crowley’s head was reeling with excitement. He was going to perform with the band! He wanted to tell someone, but he knew it couldn’t be his parents – they certainly wouldn’t approve, and his dad would probably forbid it outright. No, they couldn’t know.

He called his best friend instead. “Hey, Angel,” he said when Aziraphale answered. “Guess what?”

Crowley told Aziraphale all about the phone call from Luke, almost breathless with excitement.

“That’s wonderful, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could feel the warmth of his smile through the phone. “And your father is okay with it?” he asked.

“You’re kidding, right?” Crowley spluttered. “There’s no way I’m telling him. He’d never allow it, you know that.”

“But, how will you do that, then? I mean, there’s practices, and you’ll have to get permission to go to the performance. You know Sanderson will tell your dad if you’re suddenly away from school at all hours.”

“Jesus, Az!” Crowley burst out. “Do you have to rain on my parade? Can’t you just, I don’t know, let me enjoy the idea for a bit?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said softly. “I’m excited for you, I truly am. I just don’t want you to get into trouble over this.”

“I know, angel,” Crowley said, recognizing the apology for the olive branch that it was. “But it will be fine. I can take care of myself. Just... enjoy this with me, please?”

“Of course, my dear.” The smile was back in Aziraphale’s voice. “I’m so proud of you.”

And wasn’t that just the loveliest feeling, to be told that someone was proud of him? It wasn’t something he’d heard much before, and the words were like a little nugget of gold that he could squirrel away for a rainy day, to take it out and remind himself that he was someone worth being proud of.

“Thanks, angel,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“I can’t wait,” Aziraphale said, taking the words right out of Crowley’s mouth.

\---

The rest of the school holidays flew by in a blur of mornings spent with Aziraphale and afternoons spent with the band. Crowley had been worried that his father would get suspicious of how often he was out, but it turned out “I’m going to the Feltons’” was enough of an explanation to satisfy him (helped, no doubt, by Gabriel’s reputation as an excellent student; perhaps Mr Crowley thought it would rub off on his son).

It was, all told, the most wonderful spring break of Crowley’s life.

But all too soon, it was time to go back to school. Not that Crowley was complaining; he was more than happy to go back to sharing a room with his boyfriend. With the holidays being largely consumed by band practice, there hadn’t been nearly as much kissing and cuddling as either would have liked.

Aziraphale wasn’t in the room when Crowley arrived, although his things were: a suitcase on the bed, a jacket flung over his chair, carrier bags full of books on the desk. An unfamiliar notebook was lying on the floor between their beds; it must have fallen out of one of the bags by accident.

Crowley picked up the notebook, meaning to put it on Aziraphale’s desk with the rest of his books. He wouldn’t be able to explain, later, what possessed him to open it up. He wasn’t usually in the habit of snooping in his roommate’s things, but this time his curiosity got the better of him. He had half expected it to be empty, or perhaps filled with schoolwork.

Instead, he found page after page of what looked like verse – handwritten, recognisably in Aziraphale’s usually neat cursive, but messier and with much crossing-out. Intrigued, Crowley read a few lines.

It was poetry. Original, by the look of it. And it was breathtaking. The first poem he read spoke of longing, so evocatively written that Crowley could almost taste the tears on the back of his tongue. The words had a rhythm, somehow, a cadence suited to a mournful tune that Crowley could almost hear as he read.

He turned the page and continued reading. The second poem described a kiss, and Crowley could feel his cheeks heat as he read. The lines on the page put words to what he felt when his lips met Aziraphale’s, feelings that he had only ever been able to voice in notes pulled from his guitar.

He was just starting on a third poem when the book was abruptly snatched from his hand.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale demanded, clutching the notebook to his chest.

“Hey, Angel,” Crowley began, but his smile fell when he saw Aziraphale’s face. He looked _furious_. “What’s wrong?” Crowley asked.

“Where did you find this?” Aziraphale demanded.

Oh. The notebook. “It was lying on the floor,” Crowley tried to explain.

“And you thought it was okay to snoop? This is _private_ , Crowley.” Aziraphale still looked angry, but there was something else there too, something pained.

“I just... kind of started reading by accident, I guess? I didn’t mean to pry, I swear. I don’t even know why I opened it. But once I started reading, I couldn’t stop.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Aziraphale said tightly, turning away from him to close the door.

“I know, and I’m sorry. Believe me, I wouldn’t have touched it if I’d known it would upset you.” Crowley was desperate for Aziraphale to believe him. He didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to ruin this amazing thing they had because of his own stupid curiosity.

Aziraphale didn’t answer, so Crowley pushed on. “I’m sorry, and if you want to I’ll never mention this again, but you have to know that your writing is amazing. You did write those, yeah?” The only answer was a small nod; Aziraphale was still avoiding his eyes.

“You really are an amazing poet, Angel,” Crowley went on. “I read those poems, and it’s, like... I can feel it, the things you’re writing about. I can hear the music that goes with it. The way you weave the words together, it’s like they sing in my mind.”

Aziraphale was smiling a little now. “You really think they’re not rubbish?” he asked.

“Angel, they’re way more than _not rubbish_. They’re incredible,” Crowley said. “Like...” He was struggling to find the words for what he wanted to say, but then a sudden inspiration seized him. “Okay, wait a sec,” he said, and bent down to retrieve his guitar from under the bed.

He strummed a few chords, feeling out the shape of the music. ”This is what the first one feels like,” he explained as he played. Then he started singing - no words, just vocalisations, but keeping to what he could remember of the poem’s rhythm. He really dug deep to try and recreate the emotions that Aziraphale’s words had awoken in him.

When he looked up, Aziraphale was staring at him, mouth hanging ever so slightly open. “Crowley,” he said softly, “That’s... wow.”

“May I?” Crowley asked, gesturing to the notebook. Aziraphale looked hesitant, but handed it over. Crowley propped it open to the first page and played his improvised melody again, adding in the words this time. Even he had to admit that it gave him goosebumps.

He was just a couple of verses in when they were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed immediately by their friends tumbling into the room in their usual manner of an invading barbarian horde.

“Hey, maestro!” Adam greeted Crowley. “What’s that you were playing?”

“Oh, just something I made up,” Crowley shrugged. He shoved Aziraphale’s notebook under his pillow, out of sight.

“Sounded pretty damn good,” Adam said, to general agreement.

“Well, you are looking at a soon-to-be star of the Tadfield rock music scene,” Crowley said with a flourish.

This prompted a retelling of their holiday adventures with MorningStar. True to form, Adam immediately started plotting how to get all of them to attend the show.

“Ooh, I’ll have to let Warlock know too,” he said. It turned out Adam had spent a week visiting Warlock in London, and brought him along to Tadfield for the rest of the holidays to hang out with the rest of his childhood gang. Crowley thought Adam had a rather besotted look when he spoke of the other boy, the sort of look he saw in the mirror whenever he thought of Aziraphale; but he kept that observation to himself lest the finger be pointed in his direction next.

“So, is that song you were playing just now one of the ones you’re playing at the competition?” Wensley asked.

“Nah, it’s really just something I made up now,” Crowley said, shooting Aziraphale an apologetic look.

“No way,” Brian opined, “You should totally play it. You’ll win for sure.”

“I’ll put it to the band,” Crowley said, just to get them to shut up. “And listen to me, you lot: not one fucking word about this band thing outside this room, yeah? If my dad finds out he’ll roast me alive.”

“Mum’s the word,” Adam said with a grin.

\--

“Sorry about that, Angel,” Crowley said once they were alone again. He retrieved Aziraphale’s notebook from under his pillow and handed it over. “Didn’t mean for them to hear.”

“That’s all right, my dear,” Aziraphale said, taking it from him. “It was... quite something special. Thank you.” He stretched up to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips. Crowley responded by grabbing him around the waist and pulling him close, kissing him until they were both breathless with it.

For the rest of that day, Crowley found himself humming a new tune; a tune he’d composed on the spot as Aziraphale’s poetry wound its way through his brain. He scribbled down the tab and what words he could remember, desperate not to lose it. Even if he never played it for anyone else, his song would always be special to him.

\---

Life soon resumed its normal rhythm. The Battle of the Bands was scheduled for the first Saturday in May, which meant they had just under three weeks to go – and two Saturdays to practice. Practicing during the week was out of the question, now that school was back in full swing, and word was bound to get back to his father if he stayed out for entire weekends. So they just had to make do, and cram their practice into five or six hours on a Saturday.

Fortunately, the two holidays they spent playing together meant that Crowley was just as comfortable with the guitar as Liam had been. They knew their three performance pieces inside-out, and it was just a matter of polishing them to perfection. Crowley felt a twinge of pride that they had chosen the song he helped write the bridge for back in December as their leading piece.

By the end of the second Saturday’s practice, they were as prepared as they could ever be. It was a week until the competition, and they were ready to rock it. Luke dropped Crowley off at school, and he was singing to himself as he made his way through the corridors to his room.

He flung open the door, mouth already forming the words “Hey, Angel,” but his voice died in his throat when he saw who was waiting for him.

It wasn’t his angel.

It was his father.

“Hello, Father,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “What are you doing here?”

“Guess who I saw in town this morning, Anthony?” his father asked. Crowley knew his father wasn’t really expecting an answer, so he just shrugged.

“My sister.”

Oh shit. Bea’s mom.

“ _’Oh, isn’t it exciting about Anthony playing with Luke and his band,’_ she says to me,” Mr Crowley went on. “ _’Oh, no,’_ I say to her _, ‘You must be mistaken, Anthony isn’t playing in any band.’_ ”

“Father, I can explain-“ Crowley began, but he was cut off.

“You made a liar of me, Anthony!” his father spat out. “As if it isn’t bad enough that you kept wasting your time with this, this music nonsense! Now you’re sneaking around behind my back!”

“Father, please, just let me-“ Crowley pleaded again.

“No,” Mr Crowley said. “I won’t hear any more of this. You’re calling this Luke person and dropping out of the band, and that’s an end of it.”

“But the competition is next week!” Crowley protested. “They’re counting on me!”

“I don’t care if the world is ending next week, Anthony,” His father spat out. “This is a waste of time, and I won’t hear any more on the matter. Understood?”

Crowley looked his father in the eye, seeking some glimmer of understanding, some hope that his father would listen to him, but he found nothing but cold, unyielding anger. It was a lost cause.

“Yessir,” he said hoarsely, choking back tears. He would not give his father the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

“Good,” Mr Crowley said, before turning and walking out of the room. He hesitated in the doorway, turned back to Crowley. “Your future is important, Anthony. Far too important for you to throw away for such frivolity. Keep your head straight, and you will do great things.” And with that, he was gone.

\--

Crowley fled. He felt torn, overwhelmed by anger and grief, and he didn’t want to speak to anyone, not even his angel. He stormed out of the building, not looking up and willing the tears not to fall until he was safely outside, hidden from all prying eyes.

He eventually ended up behind the bike shed, angrily pulling on a cigarette. The wind was chilling him to the bone, but he didn’t care. The fight with his father was playing over and over in his mind; his fury starting to give way to abject despair, that dark beast that was always lurking in the corners of his mind. He had thought he was rid of it. The dual excitement of being in love and playing with a real band had kept it bay for so long that he had almost been able to believe it had never existed. But now, thanks to his father (of course, of course) the reality had come crashing back with the force of a tidal wave. Foolish of him to think he could ever escape it, to think he would ever be free to live his life as he pleased.

He knew it was unhealthy to hide away out here, stewing in self-pity. He didn’t even really want to. No, he wanted to find Aziraphale, to bask in the comfort that only his boyfriend could provide, but he didn’t think he could handle the ’I told you so’. So he lurked in the shadows, smoking nervously and trying to quell the dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even hear the approaching footsteps. Dr Device rounded the corner at speed and nearly walked right through him. He swore under his breath and dropped the cigarette, stomping it under his heel.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Or see it.” There was a smirk in her voice.

Crowley looked up in surprise to see Dr Device standing with her head cocked, regarding him critically. “Want to tell me why you’re out here freezing your balls off, instead of smoking in your room or in the toilets like any normal stupid teenager?”

“Not really, no,” Crowley answered, rather embarrassed at being caught out so thoroughly.

To his surprise, Dr Device didn’t make to leave, but leaned back against the shed wall next to him. “Look,” she said, “You’re clearly upset about something. Especially since you’re out here in the cold rather than hanging out with your roommate. Oh, don’t look at me like that – you two are thick as thieves, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Crowley experienced a moment of panic – what exactly had she noticed? How much trouble could they get into? It must have shown on his face, because she huffed out a laugh. “Oh, relax. I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just saying – it might help to talk to someone. So if you want, we can pretend for a bit that I’m not your teacher, and you can spill your guts. I can’t promise that I can help, but at least I can offer a sympathetic ear.”

To his own surprise as much as hers, Crowley found himself telling Dr Device everything – about his music, being forced to drop the school play, the band, the fight with his father (but not the bits about Aziraphale; that wasn’t just his story to tell). Dr Device was a good listener, gently pulling the whole story out of him with nods and soft questions.

“And now I’m trapped,” he concluded the story. “Trapped in this life my father has planned for me, all of it set out and carved in stone, and I’m dying inside. Music is where I feel alive, where I can be _me_. I can’t imagine life without it. Don’t want to. But what choice do I have?” Crowley ran out of words at this point and sank back against the shed wall, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Have you ever told your father what you just told me, how you feel about your music?” Dr Device asked.

“Are you kidding?” Crowley asked, incredulous. “He wouldn’t listen. He shuts me down whenever I say a word about music, calls it a waste of time. There’s no way he’d ever understand.”

Dr Device turned to face him, her expression earnest now. “Listen to me, Crowley,” she said, and that was something unusual in itself; she was the only one of the teachers who called him by his preferred name. “You’re standing here, complaining that you’re trapped, but there’s only one way out of this situation and it’s one you haven’t even tried. Talk. To. Your. Father.” She spoke those words with emphasis, with conviction. “Really, properly talk to him. Don’t give him the option of dismissing you. Convince him with your passion. It’s your only chance. He may not listen to you,” she admitted, “but if you don’t try, you’ll never know. And if you miss out on this opportunity, you’ll regret it forever. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Silence fell between them for a long moment, until Crowley finally relented with a sigh. “You’re right. I know you are. But,” he huffed out a humourless laugh, “I’m terrified. It’s not as easy as you make it sound, standing up to a man like my father.”

“I know,” Dr Device said. “But I also know you’re far braver than you think, and you have people on your side too. Your friends, your bandmates. Me. Your dreams are important, Crowley, and you shouldn’t give up on them.”

Crowley took a deep breath. It meant more than he cared to admit, having an adult express that sentiment. “Thank you,” he said. I’ll... well, I’ll consider it.”

“You do that,” she said. “Now, how about we get back inside before we get frostbite, eh?”

\--

Crowley lurked outside until after sunset, skipping dinner in favour of calming down properly. He knew Aziraphale was probably worried about him, but he just didn’t feel up to facing the gang at the dinner table. So he stood outside, and shivered, and smoked, and tried to talk himself down off the mental ledge he was on.

He thought he had gotten all the ugly emotions out of his system, but the moment he walked into the room, the scene of the fight, it came crashing down on him again.

“My dear, what on earth is wrong?” Aziraphale was on his feet and halfway across the room before Crowley had even finished closing the door.

Crowley couldn’t speak; he just stepped forward and fell into Aziraphale’s arms, sobs welling up from somewhere deep in his chest. Aziraphale led him to sit on one of the beds and pulled him close, just holding him, rubbing his back and making soothing sounds.

Eventually he calmed down enough to tell Aziraphale about the fight with his father.

“Oh, my love, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, pressing a kiss into his hair. “What can I do to help?”

“Just hold me, angel,” Crowley answered. “We can try to sort out this mess tomorrow. For now, I just need you.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, then got up and walked over to their door and locked it. He scrabbled around in Crowley’s wardrobe for his pyjamas and handed them over, before turning his back and starting to strip, pulling on his own pyjamas as he went. Crowley followed suit, getting ready for bed.

To his surprise, Aziraphale walked over to his own bed and pulled back the covers, motioning for Crowley to get in. “Come on,” he said. “You look exhausted, and I think you need some cuddles.”

Crowley gratefully got into the narrow bed, and Aziraphale settled next to him, sitting upright with his back propped against the head of the bed. “I’m going to read for a while still, but I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Crowley snuggled down contentedly, his forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh and one arm flung across Aziraphale’s lap. He butted his head against Aziraphale a few times until he got the message and stated running one hand through his hair. Crowley made a contented noise.

“Thank you, angel,” he murmured.

“Any time, my love.” Aziraphale leaned down to press a soft kiss on his shoulder. “Now rest. I won’t be going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Crowley needs a hug


	10. May 1986 (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the Battle of the Bands!
> 
> Which turns out to be both the best and the worst night of Crowley's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you've seen Dead Poet's Society, you know what's coming (if you don't and are concerned, check out the end notes for warnings, because spoilers)  
> I'm sorry.  
> Please be assured, it will end happily. I promise.

It was the big day, and Crowley felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin with excitement. Luke had picked him up early so that they could run through their performance a few times for luck, and now they were packing up their gear, triple-checking to make sure they had everything. Bea had been tasked with picking up Aziraphale from school later in the day; Luke had arranged backstage passes for the two of them by claiming they were the band’s technical crew (ridiculous, since neither of them could be trusted to plug in a cable the right way around on the first try).

In an unexpected twist, Dr Device had volunteered to bring the rest of the guys.

She’d called for him to stay back after class on Tuesday. “Did you talk to your father, Anthony?” she’d asked.

“Yeah,” he’d responded, not meeting her eye. “He... wasn’t happy. But he’s letting me play on Saturday.”

“That’s wonderful,” she’d said, beaming with pride, and somehow her supportiveness had developed into a commitment to bring the rest of the gang to watch the show. Crowley would bet good money that Mr Pulsifer would also be there.

“Time to roll, guys,” Damon called, closing the back door of the van.

Crowley was drumming his fingers on his leg nervously the whole way there. This was it; he would finally get the chance to do what he’d dreamed of for so long. He was excited, sure, but also more than a little nervous. What if he messed up? He couldn’t bear the thought of letting Luke and the guys down.

“Dude, chill,” said Liam, grabbing his hand and forcing it to still. Even though he couldn’t play, Liam was still singing, so they were temporarily a five-person band.

Crowley just gave him a weak smile. “Sorry. Nerves.”

“Yeah, I know,” Liam chuckled. “First time I played for a crowd, I was throwing up with stage fright. But you’ll be fine. Damn, you’re better on the guitar than I ever was.”

“Not so sure about that, but thanks,” Crowley said with a smile.

They finally arrived, and Crowley was flooded with relief to see a familiar head of blonde curls approaching. Aziraphale caught him in a hug and he immediately felt his nerves settle.

“Hey, Bee,” he greeted his cousin. She just regarded him critically.

“You can’t go on stage like that,” she said.

“Why, what’s wrong with my outfit?” Crowley asked. He was dressed very similarly to Luke, in ripped jeans, Doc Martens and his beloved leather jacket over a black vest.

“No, the clothes are fine, you just need... a little something.” She pulled him down to sit on a chair and started digging around in her bag, eventually pulling out what seemed to be an eyeliner pencil and a tube of mascara.

“Makeup? Are you sure?” Crowley eyed her sceptically.

“She’s right, you know,” Luke said. “You’ll look like a ghost under the stage lights otherwise. Pass it around when you’re done, Babe,” he added to Bea.

So Crowley sat still as Bea applied what felt like rather a lot of black eyeliner, mascara and finally a swoop of wine-red lipstick. “Tadaa!” she said at last, handing Crowley a little compact mirror.

Crowley hardly recognised his own face, eyes heavily outlined in smoky black, lashes long and luscious, lips the colour of old blood. He tilted the mirror this way and that, admiring his own reflection. Now that he was over the initial shock, he found he rather liked it.

“What do you think, angel?” he asked, turning to Aziraphale. To his surprise, his boyfriend was... well, he was staring, there was no other word for it, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

“You look fantastic,” he finally managed.

Crowley batted his eyelashes at him. “So you like me like this, do you?” he asked, pouting his lips.

“My dear, if you don’t stop that, I’m going to ruin your lipstick, and I don’t want to risk Bea’s wrath,” Aziraphale said with a laugh.

Crowley chuckled and pecked Aziraphale on the cheek. “Thanks, angel,” he said with a smile, using his thumb to wipe off the lipstick mark he left behind.

They hung around backstage as the show started and the first bands played. When the band before them started up, Crowley stepped outside for a smoke to calm his nerves. He walked around the side of the stage, his eyes scanning the crowd until he found what he was looking for: his friends were there, right up near the front. He was strangely pleased to see Warlock there too, along with Brian and Wensley; that must’ve been Adam’s doing. Crowley caught Adam’s eye and waved, getting a double thumbs-up from his friend in return. Smiling happily, he stubbed out his cigarette and made his way back to the band. They were going on soon, and he needed to go get ready.

\--

“And now, introducing a local band, the demons of Tadfield, let’s give it up for... MorningStar!”

Crowley blinked in the stage lights, swaying a little with the force of the crowd’s cheer. He thought he could make out Adam’s voice whooping loudly, but that may have been his imagination. This was it, the big moment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing himself calm.

Damon counted them in: one, two, one two three four...

and they were flying.

Weeks of practice took over, and Crowley’s fingers found the notes with barely a conscious input from his brain. Before the end of the first verse he’d hit his stride and was playing as if he’d been doing it all his life.

This. This was what he wanted to do. The thrill of being on stage, the noise of the crowd, the sensation of being so in tune with his bandmates that they were like one organism... it was everything he’d ever dreamed of. He savoured every moment, knowing it would be over too soon, trying not to think that he might never get to do this again. No, no worrying about the future now. This moment, this night, was a gift, and he was determined to enjoy every moment.

\--

Aziraphale stood in the wings, watching the performance. MorningStar was incredible; even Aziraphale, with his limited knowledge of rock music, could tell that they were in a different league to any of the other bands that had played. But wonderful as their performance was, Aziraphale only had eyes for a certain red-headed guitarist.

He watched Crowley swaying as he played, lost in the music and looking absolutely otherworldly, some dark god of rock music, the movements of his hips enough to tempt any saint. He was struck by how perfectly Crowley seemed to belong there, on the stage with a guitar in his hand and an almost worshipful crowd at his feet. Why this glorious creature had decided to love him, a boring bookish boy who was nothing special, he couldn’t understand for the life of him, but he’d never been prouder to call Crowley his.

Bea sidled up next to him. “Good, isn’t he?” she asked with a grin.

“Amazing,” Aziraphale agreed, not taking his eyes off Crowley.

“He wrote that bit, you know,” Bea said, referring to the bridge they were playing. “Luke and Liam couldn’t get it figured out, and he just stepped in and fixed it, easy as you like. He’s a natural.”

“He is,” Aziraphale said, remembering a different impromptu composition, one that was played for his ears only. He rather wished he could hear it again.

“Shame his dad can’t see this,” Bea went on. “Maybe then he’d understand that Crowley was made to play music.”

“I’m not so sure,” Aziraphale said sadly. “That man seems far too stubborn for his own good. Or his son’s good, for that matter.”

Bea just shrugged. They watched the rest of the performance in silence.

\--

Crowley smiled. Two songs down, and things had gone perfectly – or at least as close to perfect as made no difference. Just one song to go.

The competition required them to play two original songs and one cover, and they’d chosen [Behind Blue Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMrImMedYRo) by The Who. Crowley had, of course, campaigned for Queen, but Luke felt it didn’t quite match the band’s image. Ah well. The Who were absolute legends, so he couldn’t exactly complain.

The lights dimmed as Luke played the opening arpeggios, and Crowley let his eyes scan over the crowd, visible for the first time since they’d started playing.

He felt his breath catch as he saw a familiar-looking silhouette. It couldn’t be. Surely not?

What would his father be doing here?

The bit of his brain that was still paying attention to the music reminded him that it was time to start playing, so he closed his eyes and gathered his wits. It was just his imagination playing tricks on him. Nevertheless, as he played he sang along, throwing the bitter words out at his father’s image.

_No one knows what it's like, to be the bad man_

_To be the sad man behind blue eyes;_

_No one knows what it's like, to be hated_

_To be fated to telling only lies;_

The music soothed him, as it always did, and he managed to lose himself in the flow of it. Ironically, there was one line where he had to join Luke and Liam on the vocals, to give it that little bit of extra emphasis. He moved closer to Liam’s mic as Luke sang _‘No one knows what it's like, to feel these feelings like I do.’ “AND I BLAME YOU!”_ Crowley almost yelled out along with Liam, seeing his father before him. Because, fair or not, he did. He blamed his father for keeping him away from this, for not letting him be who he wanted to be. He blamed the man for that dark cloud that was always following him, because he refused to allow him to escape into his music.

_No one bites back as hard on their anger,_

_None of my pain and woe can show through._

_But my dreams they aren't as empty_

_As my conscience seems to be,_

_I have hours, only lonely,_

_My love is vengeance that's never free_

The music crescendoed as the bridge of the song approached, his and Luke’s guitars wailing out the tune. He pushed in next to Liam at the mic, singing along.

_When my fist clenches, crack it open, before I use it and lose my cool;_

_When I smile, tell me some bad news, before I laugh and act like a fool._

He poured his heart and soul into the song, screaming his frustration into the crowd. The bridge was followed by a musical interlude, one they’d arranged to give each of them a few bars to show off their skills. Crowley played like he’d never played before, swearing that if this were it, if this were his first and last chance to perform, he would make it worthwhile.

The pace of the song dropped again as they went into the last verse, Luke playing that familiar riff again. Cowley shut his eyes, singing silently to himself.

_No one knows what it's like to be the bad man,_

_To be the sad man behind blue eyes..._

The last note hung in the air for one perfect, eternal moment... and then the cheer from the crowd hit them with an almost physical force. “Give it up for MorningStar!” the announcer shouted, and the cheering got even louder. Crowley couldn’t contain his joy as his eye found his friends in the crowd, their heads thrown back in a shout. And then he turned and saw Aziraphale standing in the wings, beaming at him as if he’d hung the stars.

Perfection.

\---

Aziraphale rushed to meet Crowley as he came off the stage, immediately wrapping him in a hug. “You were marvellous, my dear,” he said as Crowley wrapped one skinny arm around him, the other one still holding his guitar.

“Thanks, Angel,” Crowley laughed, kissing him on the temple.

“Yeah, not bad, cuz,” Bea said from where she was wrapped around Luke’s arm. “Almost worthy of this rock god over here.” Crowley stuck his tongue out at her.

They were gently shooed out of the way by a stagehand to make space for the next band to come on. There were some ice buckets with drinks for the musicians backstage, and Crowley gratefully grabbed a can of Coke. He was still riding the high, excitedly chatting with his bandmates about their performance.

“You see,” Liam said with a proud smirk. “I told you, you’re a natural.”

Crowley ducked his head, beaming at the praise.

“Is there someone called Crowley back here?” a guy in a hi-vis vest called from the entrance to the backstage area.

“Here!” Crowley called, waving at the guy.

“Some guys out here looking for you,” the guy gestured vaguely in the direction of the gate. “Looks like you have a fan club.”

Crowley walked over, and grinned when he recognised their friends.

“Crow-man!” Adam yelled. “You kicked _ass_! And your friends, of course,” he added, seeing the rest of the band, “But you know we just came for you.”

“Thank, guys,” he laughed. “It means a lot, having you all here.”

“That was really something, Crowley,” came a female voice, and for the first time Crowley noticed that Dr Device was standing behind the group. As he’d expected, Mr Pulsifer was also in attendance, looking about as out of place as a priest in a strip club, but smiling happily because Dr Device had her arm linked with his.

“Thanks, doc,” he said, smiling bashfully. “For everything.”

Dr Device just smiled at him. “You have a gift for music like I’ve rarely seen,” she said. “I’m so glad you decided to fight for it.”

Crowley couldn’t remember ever being this happy. He basked in it like a reptile soaking up the sun, praying it would last as long as possible.

So of course, his dream was shattered in the next instant by the one voice he really, really didn’t want to hear right now.

“Anthony!”

\--

Aziraphale could almost feel Crowley panic. It was something in the way he stiffened, the way his breath hitched before he turned around to face the speaker.

“Father,” he choked out, terror leaking into his voice.

“Oh, hey Uncle Nick!” Bea greeted him, either unaware of the tension in the air or choosing to ignore it. “Wasn’t he great?”

Mr Crowley ignored her. “Come, Anthony,” he said stiffly, grabbing Crowley by the arm and yanking him to the side. “We’re going home.”

Aziraphale bristled at the way Crowley’s father manhandled him. “Please, Mr. Crowley,” he began, but he was suddenly cut off by the man stepping right up to him.

“Please what?” Crowley’s father spat out. “Please leave my son here with this riffraff of druggies and faggots? Let him throw his life away for some stupid fantasy? To hell with that. To hell with all of you.”

“Mr Crowley, if I may,” Dr Device interjected, but she was also cut off.

“Who are you? Wait, aren’t you a teacher at St Francis’? What the fuck is going on at that school?”

“Mr Crowley, please, just give me a chance to explain,” she tried again, but the man turned his back on her. Undeterred, she grabbed him by the arm and turned him back around to face her. Aziraphale had to admire her chutzpah.

“Mr Crowley, Anthony has a gift, a unique and precious talent.” Dr Device was speaking earnestly to Crowley’s father now. “Please don’t let it go to waste.”

For a moment it looked like the man was considering her words, but then his eyes hardened again. “I won’t have you tell me how to raise my son,” he hissed, and pushed her out of the way.

“Anthony. Car. Now.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley turned and started to walk away, dejected resignation written in every line of his body. “Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale called out, making to follow his friend. He felt a gentle hand on his arm.

“Don’t make it worse than it is,” Dr Device murmured. He knew she was right; interfering now would only stoke Mr Crowley’s wrath further, but he desperately wanted to offer Crowley some form of reassurance. So instead of following him, he just watched as Crowley walked to the car and got in, never lifting his gaze from the ground.

Only when he was seated inside did he look up again, finally making eye contact with Aziraphale. The expression in his eyes felt like a knife to Aziraphale’s heart; pain, sadness, fear, and something worryingly dead and resigned. He reached out a hand as if he could somehow touch Crowley over the distance, offer him some kind of comfort. _I love you,_ he mouthed, feeling a tear roll down his cheek.

Crowley looked down abruptly, and the car pulled away and into the night. Aziraphale stood frozen to the spot, watching the taillights as they disappeared in the distance.

“Come on, then,” Dr Device said with a sigh. Aziraphale turned in a daze, ready to follow her to the car. Bea interrupted them, turning to Aziraphale. “Do you wanna sleep over at mine tonight?” she asked. “I’ll bring him back to school tomorrow,” she said to the teachers. “They were planning to sleep over anyway.”

Dr Device just shrugged. “Sure. Aziraphale, come see me when you get in tomorrow, okay?” she asked. He nodded, and turned to follow Bea back to the band.

Aziraphale was grateful to Bea for inviting him to stay. She was one of the few people who knew the truth about their relationship, and she cared for Crowley deeply; all in all, she was perhaps the best person for him to be with tonight, apart from Crowley himself.

Bea seemed to sense Aziraphale’s distress, because she quickly said goodbye to the rest of the band, promising to update them as soon as she heard from Crowley. Her usual don’t-give-a-damn-about-anyone attitude couldn’t quite conceal the fact that she was worried about her cousin, and also, it seemed, about Aziraphale.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Aziraphale asked her once they were in the car.

“Crowley’s a tough kid,” was the only answer she gave.

“His dad seemed pretty mad,” Aziraphale remarked.

“Yeah. Fuck.” Bea angrily put the car into gear and pulled away. “That old bastard will ruin Crowley’s life without a second thought, all in the name of preserving his precious business.”

“You don’t think he’ll... I don’t know, hurt Crowley or something?” Aziraphale asked. All kinds of nightmare scenarios were playing in his mind.

“He’s not violent, I don’t think,” Bea answered, “But he’s pissed as anything. I don’t know, honestly. But we’ll keep an eye on Crowley, you and me. Maybe phone him when we get home, check that he’s okay.”

“Yeah, okay,” Aziraphale agreed.

To his surprise, Bea reached out and took his hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

They rode the rest of the way home in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Bea’s hand only left his when she needed to change gears, and she returned immediately every time. Aziraphale was more grateful than he could say for that one point of contact keeping him grounded.

“Phone’s over there,” Bea gestured as they walked into the house. “You know the number?”

“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale said, picking up the earpiece and dialling. It rang once, twice.

“Hello?” barked Mr Crowley’s voice. Ah, damn, he’d been hoping to get the junior Crowley, not his father.

“May I speak to Anthony, please?” Aziraphale asked as politely as he could, his hatred for the man on the other side of the line churning in his gut.

“No!” was all the response he got, before the phone was slammed down in his ear.

His shoulders sagged in defeat.

“C’mon,” Bea said, putting a gentle arm around his shoulders. “We’ll try again in the morning.”

Aziraphale let himself be led up to Bea’s bedroom in a trancelike state, changed into a borrowed set of pyjamas, and slipped into the bed she’d made up for him on the couch. Sleep eluded him, as he lay tossing and turning, listening to the sounds of an unfamiliar house and worrying, worrying, worrying. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

\---

Crowley sat on an uncomfortable chair in the study as his father circled him. His mother was also there, in the background as usual, not saying a word as her husband ranted at their only child.

“Why would you do this to us, Anthony?” his father said. “Why do you persist in defying us? We’ve given you everything, all the opportunities you could ever want, and how do you thank us? By throwing it all away for some, some silly fancy?”

“It’s not silly,” Crowley began, but his father wasn’t done yet.

“This nonsense ends today, d’you hear me? Today!” His father took a deep breath. “If you can’t be relied upon to act responsibly, you’ll be put into a more disciplined environment, where you will learn to bow the knee to proper authority.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked in a small voice.

“For a start, you will not be going back to that school,” his father said, voice dripping with disdain. “I will arrange for a tutor, and you will complete your year at home under my direct supervision.”

“Father, no!” Crowley cried out. “Please, you can’t-“

“I can and I will!” his father roared. “You’ve been on a loose rein for far too long. You will take your place in this family, or so help me God...”

His father didn’t complete the threat, but he didn’t need to, not really. Crowley could hardly imagine anything worse than the future that had just been outlined for him, a life devoid of his friends, his music, his boyfriend – and that was a whole other conversation they still hadn’t even touched on. Just thinking about it made him wince.

“Well,” his father said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Oh, so now he was finally getting a chance to speak? Not that it would do much good, but he remembered Dr Device’s advice: if he didn’t at least try, he would always wonder what might have been.

Before he could speak, they were interrupted by the phone ringing. His father snatched the receiver off its cradle, barking out a clipped “Hello?”

There was a pause as the person on the other side spoke, then his father just said “No!” and slammed the phone down.

“Who was that?” Crowley asked, wondering what had upset his father so.

“That pansy roommate of yours,” his father answered, disgust in his voice. “No wonder you’ve gone so far off the rails, hanging out with the likes of him.”

Crowley didn’t think he could possible feel worse, but he that statement proved him wrong as he felt his heart sink even further. He had to admit that it didn’t take a lot of imagination to see Aziraphale as gay, with his refined way of speaking and his soft, almost effeminate manners. Hearing his father express his derision so clearly was, for Crowley, the final nail in the coffin. The man would never understand or accept him, that much was clear now.

“Anyway. You were saying?” said his father, crossing his arms and waiting for Crowley to speak.

“Nothing,” Crowley said softly, wrapping his arms around himself. He suddenly felt terribly cold, all the way to his core. “I’m going to bed now, if you don’t mind,” he said softly, getting up and making his way to the door. Neither of his parents moved to stop him.

Crowley undressed in a daze, still processing everything that had happened. How had he managed to go from the highest point in his life to the lowest in the course of, what, an hour? It was almost comical, how quickly things had turned around.

He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused as he battled with the demons in his own head. He shivered, dressed only in his boxers, but he couldn’t bring himself to get up and get under the covers. It seemed entirely too pointless; no amount of blankets would shift the chill that gripped his heart.

His mind was running in circles, constantly looking for a way out. He’d thought he was trapped before, but this was so much worse. No music, no guitars or tapes or anything; no friends, no Aziraphale. No freedom. He was just a prisoner in his own life now, an actor in his father’s script with no more say in his destiny than a character in a storybook, at the mercy of the author. He tried, he really tried, to see some bright spot, some flicker of hope, but the darkness was everywhere, drowning him, pressing down on him until he was sure he was suffocating. His lungs burned as he gasped for air, the walls steadily closing in on him.

He jumped up from the bed and rushed over to the window, throwing it open in a desperate bid to _breathe_ , to get some life-giving oxygen into his lungs. It was hopeless. There was no relief, just a shock of cold air that had him choking and retching as he pulled at his own hair.

He couldn’t do this anymore.

His eyes strayed to the window, and then down to the ground, a couple of stories below. What would happen if he fell, he wondered? Was it high enough to kill him? It would be a blessed relief if it did, just switch him off. No more pain, no more suffering. Darkness, yes, but the darkness of rest, of respite.

Without quite realising it, he’d moved so that he was leaning out of the window, testing his balance, seeing how far he could tilt without falling.

But no. Two stories wouldn’t be enough to kill him. Probably just break a few bones. With his luck, it would put him in a wheelchair, and he’d end up right back where he was now, only minus the ability to walk. Not a good trade.

But the thought of ceasing to exist wouldn’t let him go. If only there was an easier way.

The image of his father’s handgun came to him unbidden. That could do it. Quick, painless.

He walked out of his room as softly as he could, padded over to his father’s wardrobe. He knew the safe combination from old, managed to get it open without so much as a squeak.

There it was. His ticket out of here.

He took the gun carefully, almost reverently. Now, where to do the deed. Not in here, he didn’t want his last memory to be of his parents’ bedroom. Not in his room either, it just didn’t feel right. He thought for a moment, and then padded down the hall to the study. It seemed fitting, that the scene of his trial and conviction should also be the scene of his execution.

He cocked the gun, placed it to his temple.

No, wait. He set it down, picked up a pen and a sheet of paper from the desk.

 _I’ll never be the son you want me to be,_ he wrote. _At least this way, you won’t have to deal with the disappointment anymore._

There.

He picked up the gun again, resumed his stance from before. Took a shaky breath, then smiled sardonically at the futility of trying to breathe now.

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

Bloody buggering _fuck_ , the thing wasn’t loaded. No! No, no, no, no, no! His only chance out, and it was being taken from him.

He sank down on the floor, sobbing helplessly, his whole body shaking in the backwash of the adrenalin rush. What now?

For no reason that he could articulate, Aziraphale’s face rose in his mind. Oh God! Aziraphale! He’d completely forgotten about him! He shuddered when he thought what his death would do to his boyfriend. Briefly imagined how he would feel if their places were reversed, and the pain that shot through his heart was almost physical. No, he couldn’t do that. But what could he do?

He suddenly remembered talking to Aziraphale, months and months ago, before they’d properly found their way to each other. _If you ever feel like that, talk to me,_ he’d said. Yes. That was what he needed. Aziraphale would talk him down, help him find his way out of this mess. But how to get to him? It must be after midnight, he was too far from school to walk, and there was no way in hell he was asking his father to take him.

So he picked up the phone and called the only person he could think of.

“Bee?” he croaked, voice raspy with crying. “I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW if you've skipped ahead: horrible parenting, panic attack, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt.
> 
> Here's The Who’s Original 1971 recording of Behind Blue Eyes: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMrImMedYRo>. Feel free to imagine MorningStar playing something like the Limp Bizkit cover.


	11. May 1986 (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the aftermath from that awful night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start to look up for Crowley in this chapter, my dears. It's not their happy ending yet, but we're on our way.

Aziraphale was still lying awake on Bea’s couch, unsuccessfully trying to force his brain to switch off, when he heard the telephone ring. He checked his watch – it was after midnight. Who would be calling at this hour?

He listened as someone padded down the hall and picked up the phone.

“Hello?” came Bea’s voice. A pause. “What’s wrong? What do you need?” Another pause. “I can do better than that. Just hold on a mo.”

Aziraphale was sitting up now, looking over at Bea. She waved him over.

Aziraphale walked over to the phone hesitantly. “Crowley,” Bea said, handing him the receiver. “Talk to him. I’m going over to pick him up.”

Anxiety flooded Aziraphale as he took the phone from Bea. Why would Crowley be calling at this hour? What had happened that necessitated a midnight rescue?

“Hello?” he said softly into the phone.

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice was strained, choked off in a way that suggested he was fighting some overwhelming emotion, and about to lose the battle.

“I’m here, love,” Aziraphale said as reassuringly as he could. “Bea’s on her way.”

“Oh, angel, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” Crowley was sobbing now.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Aziraphale tried to comfort him. He had no idea what was going on, but he assumed that something big must have happened in the last few hours to leave Crowley in such a state.

Crowley wasn’t talking now, just crying softly. Aziraphale kept up a constant stream of reassurances, of “I’m here,” and “It will be okay,” and “I love you.”

Even though it felt like an eternity, it wasn’t too long before Bea arrived at Crowley’s house. Crowley still hadn’t been able to explain what was going on by the time they said goodbye. Aziraphale was truly worried now. The only reason he could convince himself to put down the phone was that he knew Bea was there, and she would bring Crowley over right away.

Minutes later, he heard them at the front door, and he walked over nervously. The first sight of Crowley struck him like a hammer blow: misery and defeat were written in every line of his stance. His eyes were red, mascara and eyeliner streaked across his face where tears had run, his hair was sticking up in every direction and he was chewing on his bottom lip, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed, hurrying over to him and wrapping his arms around him. Crowley sagged against him, his whole frame going limp. Aziraphale noticed that he was trembling.

“Come on,” he murmured gently, leading Crowley over to the couch, where they both sank down. Crowley curled up against him, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s neck as Aziraphale held him close. “It’s okay, love, I’m here,” he murmured as Crowley started crying again.

“Bea, what’s going on?” came a groggy voice from the hallway. Aziraphale looked up to see an older woman standing in the doorway, running a nervous hand through her hair. Right, Bea’s mother.

“Bit of a family emergency, ma,” Bea said. “I’ll explain. Let’s give them a moment.” She herded the older woman back to the bedroom, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale alone in the living room.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale pulled back just far enough that he could look his boyfriend in the eyes. “What’s going on? What happened?”

“It’s bad, angel,” Crowley whispered hoarsely, his face contorted with pain.

Aziraphale raised a hand to gently brush away an errant tear. “Tell me?” he asked.

So slowly, stuttering and looking down, and seeming like he wanted to curl in on himself and disappear, Crowley told the whole story: the argument with his parents, his father’s decision to take him out of school, the utter hopelessness that drove him to the point where death seemed like the only reasonable solution.

Aziraphale felt his heart constrict in pain when Crowley talked about taking his own life. For a moment, he imagined a world without Crowley in it, and it ripped through him like a torpedo, leaving nothing but destruction and desolation in its wake.

“No,” he said harshly, pulling Crowley in close and squeezing him so hard that it must have been difficult to breathe. “Please, God, no; don’t you ever, ever...” Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to say the words, but the message got through.

“I remembered, Angel,” Crowley said into his shoulder. ”I remembered that you said I can talk to you. And then I realised... I thought what it would do to you. If I... So I called Bee. Thought you were at school, wanted to come to you.”

“Always,” Aziraphale choked out between tears. “Always come to me. I’ll always be there.”

They sat on the sofa, each trying simultaneously to comfort and take comfort from the other, until they were interrupted by Bea.

“You guys take my bed,” she said. “I’ll bunk down with ma. She’ll help you sort this out.”

“And if my father shows up?” Crowley managed.

“Ma will deal with him. Possibly by running him over with her car.” Both boys chuckled a bit at this. “Just get some sleep now, okay?”

They acquiesced and made their way to Bea’s room, crawling into her bed. Aziraphale lay with Crowley cradled against his chest, stroking his hair until he finally heard his breathing even out as sleep took him. Only once he heard a soft snore did he allow himself to close his eyes and drift off.

\--

They were woken up by Bea the next morning. “Sorry to wake you guys,” she said, “But I think the shit just hit the fan.”

Aziraphale heard Bea’s mom speaking, presumably on the phone.

“Yes... No... I don’t care... For fucks sake, Nick, he tried to kill himself!” Aziraphale winced at that one. It was Mr. Crowley on the phone, then.

“No, you may not... I don’t give a fuck... Don’t make me call the cops on you.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, eyes wide in terror. Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, just looked back at him. This sounded bad.

“You really think so?... No, over my dead body. Tell you what, I’ll come over to yours... No, Nick, you can’t... That’s for him to decide... Right. See you in ten.”

Moments later, she strode into the room and walked right up to Crowley, enveloping him in a hug. “Are you okay, Anthony?” she asked, but before he could answer, she continued, “No, stupid question, of course you aren’t.” She sat on the bed next to them.

“I’m going over to talk to your parents,” she said.

“Yeah, we heard,” Bea said drily. “As did the neighbours.”

“Right, sorry about that,” she winced a bit, but carried on. “Anthony, what do you want to do? You can come with me, or stay here, or go back to school with Aziraphale.”

“I’d prefer to go to school,” Crowley said honestly. “But my father won’t allow it, he made that very clear.”

“Let me deal with your father, okay?” she said with a kind smile. “Bea will drop you guys off when you’re ready. Help yourselves to breakfast or whatever you need. I’m off to go talk to the great beast that is my idiot brother.” She rolled her eyes and got up off the bed. Before she left, she turned back, a serious expression on her face. “Anthony,” she started, “I hope you know, whatever happens... You’ll always be welcome here. We’ll do whatever we can to help you.”

“Thanks, Aunt Lil,” Crowley said, smiling despite the tears glistening in his eyes.

“Anytime, kiddo,” she said, and turned to go.

\---

Crowley was relieved when Bea dropped them off at school an hour or so later. There was something about the familiar environment that soothed his nerves a little.

“I promised Dr Device I’d check in with her when I got back,” Aziraphale said. “You wanna come with?”

Crowley couldn’t stand the idea of being separated from Aziraphale right now, and he wasn’t particularly keen to face his friends either, so he followed Aziraphale to the teachers’ quarters.

To their surprise – although it probably shouldn’t have been – it was Mr Pulsifer who opened the door to Dr Device’s flat.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he said, stepping aside to let them into the small sitting room.

“Ann,” he called out, “Your boys are here.”

Dr Device appeared through a doorway. She gave the two boys a wordless look before turning to Mr Pulsifer and saying, “Won’t you make us a pot of tea, hon?” He nodded and disappeared into what was presumably a kitchen of some sort.

She gestured to the boys to sit. “I’m rather pleased to see you here, Crowley,” she said, “Although I’ll admit I’m a bit surprised. I didn’t think your father would want to let you come back.”

Crowley gave a humourless laugh. “He didn’t, exactly. I’m kinda expecting him to burst through the door and drag me off any moment now.”

Dr Device’s eyebrows raised over the rims of her round glasses, but she didn’t say anything, just looked at him in that piercing way she had.

“Yeah,” Crowley said eventually, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was a rough night.”

Just then, Mr. Pulsifer reappeared, bearing a tray with a steaming teapot and four cups.

“I think,” Dr Device said, “That I should pour us all a nice cup of tea, and then you should tell us both what’s going on. Okay?”

No, not really. Crowley didn’t want to tell this whole sorry story again, especially not to a teacher. But then again, he might need another adult on his side, and Dr Device was probably the best person around to confide in. He looked over at Aziraphale, hoping his boyfriend would have an answer for him.

Aziraphale gave him a small but reassuring smile. “She’s probably right, you know,” he said. “I’ll help with the difficult bits. But I think you should tell her.”

Crowley nodded. Swallowed, nodded again. “Okay,” he said and took a deep breath before launching into yet another retelling of the last night’s events. It was a bit easier this time, knowing Aziraphale was there and supporting him, and besides, Dr Device was an excellent listener. She never interrupted him, coaxing the story out of him with nods and hums, only the tensing of her jaw muscles betraying her emotions. Crowley was crying again before he was done – would he ever stop doing that? – and Mr Pulsifer wordlessly passed him a box of tissues.

“Right,” Dr Device said when he was finished. “So your dad doesn’t know you’re here? After he more or less forbade you from coming back?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Crowley said.

“Hoo, boy, that sounds like a disaster waiting to happen,” she opined. The three of them nodded wordlessly.

“That aside,” she went on, “You need help, Crowley. This is getting out of hand.”

Crowley sank his head into his hands with a groan. “I know,” he said. “But where do I even start? My father thinks it’s all just some silly phase, my mother doesn’t give a damn. They have their little plan for my life and I... I just can’t.”

Crowley felt a soft hand come to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently; Aziraphale, of course. He leaned into the touch. “We’ll figure it out, my de- C-Crowley,” he said reassuringly.

Crowley wanted with all his heart to believe him.

\--

It all came to a head that afternoon, when Crowley’s parents showed up to the school; his father was spitting fire and demanding to speak to Dr Sanderson, his son and whoever was responsible for this mess. Crowley was relieved beyond words to see that his aunt had come along, and even more so when Dr Device also joined the group in the headmaster’s office. It didn’t do much to soothe his nerves, in all honesty, but at least he didn’t feel quite so outnumbered. He sat down next to his aunt, and she immediately took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He wished he could have taken Aziraphale along too, but that would be pushing it too far. If his father caught a hint of their relationship he had no chance of staying at school.

To Crowley’s disbelief, his father’s anger didn’t seem to be directed mainly at him. In fact, it was difficult to tell who exactly he was angry at, unless it was the universe, the whole stupid situation... or possibly just himself. He seemed to be genuinely shocked at how far things had gone.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he raged, gripping Crowley by the shoulders. “Surely you could have... I don’t know...”

“What was I supposed to do? Tell you I wanted to make music, ask you to leave me in peace to live my own life?” Crowley replied with a huff. “Yeah, that’s gone really well for me in the past. You’ve done such a great job of trying to understand me.” He glared at his father; he was angry now, furious at this man who was supposed to love him, but instead had pushed him until he could take no more. He braced for the backlash that would be coming; saw an answering rage flare up in his father’s eyes.

And then, to his surprise, the man dropped his hands, looked down at the floor. He sighed deeply, suddenly sounding weary. “You’re right,” he admitted, sagging into his chair. “I’ve never been good at listening. I thought I was doing what was best for you; thought I was securing your future.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Guess I was wrong about that.”

Crowley was reeling a bit from the sudden change in his father. He looked older and more tired than Crowley had ever seen him, as if this whole ordeal had taken as much of a toll on him as it had on Crowley’s friends. And wasn’t that a thought.

He reached out a tentative hand and laid it on his father’s arm. “We can still talk, if you’re willing. It’s not too late.”

His father looked up at him, and for the first time in who knew how long, father and son shared a smile. It was a small, tentative thing, brittle and awkward, but it was a smile.

“Okay,” his father said gruffly. “Let’s talk.”

\--

By the end of the meeting, it was agreed that Crowley could finish out the year in school, after which future plans would be negotiated. It was a small victory, but a significant one: for the first time, Crowley had had the courage to say what he wanted, and his father had listened. The discussions regarding next year, the future, business school and music... well, those would wait for another day.

Crowley greeted his parents and hugged his aunt, quietly thanking her for all her support.

“No problem, kiddo,” she said. “Like I said, my door’s always open for you. You just get better, yeah? And ask for help if you need it.”

“I promise,” he said, and realised that he meant it. Why hadn’t he seen it before?

“Oh, I almost forgot; Bea said you must give Luke a call,” his aunt said. “She seemed rather excited about it, too.”

“Probably want to know I’m okay,” Crowley mused. “Fuck, I was such an idiot. I’ll call him now. Thanks again, Aunt Lil.”

They said their goodbyes, and Crowley made his way to the bank of pay phones in the lobby. Best get this done first, and then go hide in his room.

“Crowley!” Luke almost shouted when he got him on the phone. “Fuck man, are you okay? Bea told me what happened.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Crowley said, reckoning it was close enough to the truth. “Things are more or less under control now.”

“Glad to hear it, mate,” Luke said. “Anyway, did Bee tell you the good news?”

“I don’t think so, unless he definition of good news has been changed,” Crowley answered.

“Fuck, really?” Luke sounded incredulous. “We won, Crowley. The Battle of the Bands? We won it, mate!”

Crowley felt pride and joy well up in his chest, a welcome if alien emotion after the turmoil of the last night and day (and fuck, had it really been less than 24 hours? He felt like he’d aged 10 years).

“That’s incredible, man!” he said, beaming. “I know we could do it. That’s just... fuck, I don’t even know what to say!”

“I know, right?” Luke said. “Fucking dream come true. I hope you’re gonna keep playing with us, yeah?” he asked hopefully.

Crowley felt his heart sink again. The talk with his father hadn’t covered this. “Not so sure about that,” he said. “Things are a bit... difficult still.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” Luke admitted. “But think about it, please. We could really use you.”

“I can’t make any promises,” Crowley said. “But I appreciate the offer, really I do.”

After they’d said their goodbyes, Crowley felt a smile creeping back onto his face. They did it! They really fucking did it!

He couldn’t wait to go tell Aziraphale.

\---

During the meeting with his parents, Dr Device had also taken the opportunity to insist that Crowley should seek some professional help for his depression. And so Crowley started seeing a therapist the next week, a frankly bizarre woman by the name of Agnes Nutter; he couldn’t decide whether that was the best or worst possible surname for someone who was supposed to help him maintain his sanity. Dr Device recommended her, though, so that counted for a lot in his mind.

Agnes turned out to be quite delightful, and as eccentric as her surname suggested. The first time he walked into her office she had music blaring loudly – Bowie, no less – and was so caught up in dancing that Crowley was forced to knock loudly on the desk to get her attention.

“Oh, hi,” she said, smiling at the interruption and turning off the music. “You must be the lad from Ana’s school.”

“Ana? Oh, you mean Dr Device. You know her?” Crowley asked.

“She’s my niece,” Agnes explained. “And you are?”

“Crowley,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you, Crowley,” she said, a kind smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Please, take a seat.” She gestured to a comfy-looking armchair, and Crowley flopped down.

“So, you like Bowie?” Crowley said, still amused at that incongruence. Agnes certainly didn’t look like someone who would be into Bowie’s bizarre brand of glam rock. She had long, dark hair streaked with grey, tied into a loose braid that hung down her back, and was dressed in layered skirts and shawls that made her look rather like a fairground fortune-teller dressing up for a renaissance festival.

“Oh, yes,” Agnes smiled. “Always had a bit of a soft spot for the weirdos, me. You have to admire the way he’s just so... fiercely himself.”

Crowley hummed, but didn’t say more.

“So, what brings you to my door?” she asked, shuffling to get comfortable in her own chair.

“I suppose, in a sense, music,” Crowley said with a chuckle.

“Why don’t you tell me the story?” Agnes asked, fixing him with a soft look.

For a moment Crowley wanted to bolt; to run away and never look back. He really didn’t want to rehash all his issues and insecurities with a total stranger, charming though she may be. But he turned that thought away almost as quickly as it had arrived. He couldn’t hide from this anymore; needed to face it head-on if he were ever going to sort it out.

“So, I guess it all starts with my father,” he began.

\--

An hour later, he’d finished telling the story up to the present day, all the ugly details of his life laid out on the floor between them. The mess of a relationship with his parents, the way they’d disagreed about the path his life should take, the whole saga with the band and the near-tragic fallout from that. Even his relationship with Aziraphale, which was something he hadn’t shared with anyone except for Bea and the band. He figured if Agnes was going to fix him, she might as well see where all the broken pieces were, as well as the bits that he would fight to the death to keep.

“Well. That’s rather a lot,” Agnes said when he finally wound down.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, wiping his eyes with a tissue. Nope, still hadn’t run out of tears. His body seemed to have a limitless supply of them.

“Okay, so here’s what we’ll do. I want to see you again in two weeks’ time. In the meantime, I want you to put together a setlist of sorts for me. A list of songs that you feel fit your story. Good things, bad things, things you’re still dreaming of, it doesn’t matter. But bring me some songs, and come tell me what they mean to you. Okay?”

“Um, okay,” Crowley said. Not exactly a tedious assignment – he already had a few songs running through his head – but not what he’d been expecting at all. Wasn’t she supposed to tell him how to fix his shit? “And then?”

“You’ll see,” she said, smiling cryptically. “Just trust in the process.”

\--

Crowley spent the next two weeks listening through most of his music collection, and showed up at his next appointment with a list of songs in hand.

Agnes looked it over, her mouth quirking into an amused grin. “Big Queen fan, are you?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s no secret,” Crowley said, mirroring her grin. There were no less than three Queen songs on the short list.

“So. Tell me about these,” Agnes said, spreading the page out on the table between them.

“Well, some of them are about my dad, obviously. Some are about Aziraphale. Some are just, you know, life in general. Things I feel.”

“Okay,” she said. “Why don’t you explain them to me one by one. Take as much time as you need, we don’t have to get through all of them today.”

Hmm, where to start. Maybe with the obvious. He pointed to _I want to break free_. “This one says it all, I think,” he started. “The first verse, that’s about feeling trapped, right? Which is exactly how I felt, still feel, at home. And then the second verse, he sings about falling in love, which is also pretty damn relevant right now.”

And just like that, it was easy, letting his favourite musicians speak for him. Somehow, using their words made it easier to find his own, to start to unravel the complicated ball of emotions knotting together in his chest. When they got to _Under pressure_ , the conversation moved past the music to the musicians themselves, and Crowley found himself talking about how he identified with different aspects of Freddie and Bowie’s personas.

Agnes helped him along with gentle prompts and pointed questions, and before he knew it their hour was over. And they’d hadn’t even worked their way through a quarter of the list.

“We’ll carry on with this next week,” Agnes said. “And feel free to add some more.”

“Okay,” Crowley said. “But I still don’t understand. Why are we even doing this?”

“You’re a musician, Crowley,” Agnes said. “You should know that music goes straight to the heart. Words just get lost in your brain, but music? Music speaks without words.”

Well, that could have been clearer, Crowley thought, but he nodded. He could carry on with this, if she thought it would help. It’s not like he was hating it.

This unconventional form of therapy went on for a few more weeks. He spent almost one entire session talking about love songs and Aziraphale, because it was just such a fucking joy to gush about his boyfriend to someone who wouldn’t judge him.

“Sounds like he’s good for you,” was Agnes’s only comment on the topic, and he couldn’t agree more.

Crowley smiled as he explained their history with _You’re my best friend_ and _I wanna hold your hand_ ; when he got to _I can’t help falling in love_ it triggered a whole discussion about what his family would think about his sexuality, and how he couldn’t change himself and moreover didn’t want to; how he wanted to shout from the rooftops that Aziraphale _chose him_ , but at the same time he was terrified of coming out to his parents.

Some songs were much less enjoyable to discuss, but nonetheless cathartic. _Wouldn’t it be good_ , for all its cheery pop vibes, described the depth of his despair on that night so well that it left him a sobbing mess. This drifted into a discussion of _Behind blue eyes_ and his complicated relationship with his father. _Vincent_ explained how completely misunderstood he felt as an artist (“And Van Gogh also ended up in a loony bin, didn’t he, so it’s fitting,” he joked), and _Free electric band_ explained exactly what he wanted to do – give it all up to make music. Not that he had any concrete plans to do so, but it was nice to dream.

They talked through his thoughts on _Please please please let me get what I want, Another brick in the wall_ and even _Imagine._

“There’s just something in the wistfulness of it, you know?” Crowley said about John Lennon’s iconic anthem. “Something about the way he says yes, this all sucks, but I can still imagine a better world. Of course, my dad thinks it’s a piece of commie propaganda,” he added with a sardonic chuckle.

“And you? Can you imagine a better life?” Agnes asked.

“Imagine it? Sure. Making it happen is another story, though.”

“You’ll get there,” she said, patting his arm.

Crowley hoped she was right. Just the thought of talking to his father about his plans for after school was still enough to make him panic. He still had no idea how to approach that topic, what to ask for.

But he was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he could figure it out, and more importantly, find the courage to talk to his dad once he did. And that in itself was a giant leap in the right direction.

**Notes** :

Here's Crowley’s list, as I imagine it. Links are for YouTube videos with lyrics.

  * I want to break free: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBthBQ-cKJA>
  * Under pressure: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyT8mVwf_40>
  * You’re my best friend: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kJw9LJkbhD0>
  * I wanna hold your hand: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHgf_Ocej0I>
  * I can’t help falling in love: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2YFYRYUoCPQ>
  * Wouldn’t it be good: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYMAtbq0bjY>
  * Behind blue eyes: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qg_TRaiWj4o>
  * Vincent: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxHnRfhDmrk>
  * Free electric band: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2zoq2uI0Fc>
  * Please please please let me get what I want: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtWbc2mSjUQ>
  * Another brick in the wall: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YR5ApYxkU-U>
  * Imagine: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6svOHFSAH8>



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I use music to process my emotions? Maybe...


	12. June 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Crowley's birthday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit lighter, after all the angst and drama we've gone through.  
> It also has some art!!  
> Enjoy, my dears.

Aziraphale was keeping a close eye on Crowley. His therapy seemed to be going well, as far as Aziraphale could tell; certainly, he didn’t seem as depressed as he had been. The shrink seemed like a bit of an eccentric (Aziraphale was sure this was why Crowley liked her so much), and Crowley seemed to be enjoying the work they were doing together.

Crowley was talking more, too. Not that he’d ever been particularly quiet, but now he was talking about different things. Deeper things. Aziraphale hadn’t even realised it before, but Crowley had never really talked about what was going on in his head. As if he thought his struggles were somehow shameful, something to be hidden away. Aziraphale wanted to kick himself for not noticing sooner, but Crowley had done such a good job of pretending he was fine that he had fooled everyone. Oh well, no point in recriminating himself for it now. All he could do now was be there for Crowley and offer whatever help he needed.

Aziraphale had to hand it to Agnes: getting Crowley to express himself through music had been a stroke of genius. There was something about it that allowed Crowley to open up in a way he never really did otherwise. When Crowley came back from his second therapy appointment, the one where they first started discussing the songs, Aziraphale asked how it went, like he always did – and he was rewarded with an in-depth recounting of the entire session and every realisation Crowley had had that day. Since then, they had spent hours talking through all the songs he chose for Agnes, and many more besides. Once Cowley found the courage to open up – and the reassurance that he wouldn’t be pushed away – it was like a dam bursting. Aziraphale wondered how long he’d been holding all of this inside, needing to talk to someone but too afraid to speak up.

Aziraphale found it fascinating (and reassuring) to watch Crowley sort through his own mind and experiences, finally putting labels to things that he had just been pushing down for far too long. Every new revelation about this wonderful, chaotic boy made Aziraphale love him a little more, made him want to protect him from every dark thing that threatened to drag him under. He knew he couldn’t save Crowley single-handedly – if it were that easy, they wouldn’t need Agnes, right? – but he was determined to at least stand by his side and help him fight the demons in his own head.

There was one thing that was off, though: Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley pick up his guitar since the rock show; not even once. He sort of assumed that the wound was still a bit too raw, the memories of that night a bit overwhelming. But at the same time, he knew that music was an integral part of Crowley’s soul, and he was sure it would help him in his healing process.

It had been worrying Aziraphale more than a little, but up until now he hadn’t been quite sure how to bring it up. And then, a few days ago a brilliant idea had hit him. He knew just how to get Crowley to play something for him.

It was a Sunday, and they were lounging in their room, taking a break from the incessant homework and studying. Aziraphale was sitting up across his bed, reading, and Crowley was lying with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, half-dozing as Aziraphale ran gentle fingers through his hair. He was just like a cat, Aziraphale thought fondly; scratch him behind the ears and he turns into a purring, boneless puddle of goo.

“Do you know what today is?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hmm?” Crowley considered it. “Nope, can’t think of anything. Why?”

“Well, maybe it’s silly to even remember this, but...” Aziraphale took a deep breath, and slipped his hand into Crowley’s, intertwining their fingers. “It’s been three months. To the day.”

Crowley looked thoughtful for a moment. “Wow. So it has,” he said, and brought Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips, gently kissing his knuckles. “Best fucking decision ever, that was.”

“Agreed,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle. “In fact, I have something for you.”

He wriggled himself out from under Crowley’s head and went over to his desk.

“You got me something?” Crowley asked, surprise evident in his voice.

“Not exactly,” Aziraphale said. “I guess you could say I made you something.”

He had the gift in his hands: a small, nondescript notebook. He held it out to Crowley nervously; it was nerve-wracking, giving Crowley something so personal.

Crowley took the notebook and flipped it open. As he started reading, his eyes grew wide.

“Angel, are these-“

“My poems, yes,” Aziraphale interrupted, swallowing nervously. “I mean, most of them were written for you anyway. And I... well, last time you saw them, you played such beautiful music. I guess I was hoping you might want to do that again.”

“Fuck, Angel, that’s...” Crowley seemed to be at a loss for words. He closed the notebook carefully, reverently, and laid it aside before pulling Aziraphale into a hug.

“This is the most special gift I’ve ever gotten. Thank you.” He nuzzled at Aziraphale’s cheek, urging him into a kiss. They lost themselves in it for a good few moments, enjoying the gentle press and slide of their lips, the sense of comfort and safety they always found in each other’s arms.

When they finally separated again, Crowley went over to his desk, retrieving a piece of paper and slipping it into the notebook.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley blushed ever so slightly. “Oh, um. That bit of music I played the last time I read your poems? I wrote it down, or what I could remember of it. I can’t wait to finally get the whole song out!”

Crowley was bending down to retrieve his guitar case, and Aziraphale smiled. That was exactly what he’d been hoping for. “Well, what are you waiting for? I’m looking forward to hearing it.”

“Wanna join me?” Crowley asked with a grin.

And there was no way Aziraphale would turn down the offer of an afternoon spent listening to Crowley play, looking up from his own book every so often to admire Crowley’s face as he lost himself in his music once again.

And if they took advantage of the music rooms’ seclusion and soundproofing to indulge in some extremely enthusiastic snogging... well, could anyone really blame them?

\---

Crowley’s birthday was in late June, and Aziraphale was determined to make it special, especially considering how Crowley had done the same for him.

To this end, he’d enlisted Bea’s help. She’d organised that they have the party at Luke’s parents’ house; they had a pool, and Aziraphale thought an afternoon of swimming and an evening of dancing would be the perfect way to celebrate. Bea invited the band, and Bea’s mom had even talked to her brother, to ensure that they wouldn’t be interrupted by an untimely visit from the parents. Aziraphale didn’t know how that conversation had gone down, and didn’t really care to, but at least she convinced Mr Crowley to stay away on the condition that she hang around as a chaperone. Which was fair enough; Bea’s mom was a lot of fun, so no-one would mind having her there. For his part, Aziraphale had made sure that all their friends from school would be there, all while – and this was the really difficult part – keeping it a secret from Crowley.

Finally the day arrived, a beautiful sunny Saturday, and Bea arrived at St Francis’ in her little red Bug to pick them up. Crowley was a little confused at the sudden appearance of his cousin in a place where she had no busines being.

“Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see you, Bee,” he said, “but what the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s your birthday on Monday, idiot,” Bea explained. “We’re celebrating. Come on, both of you.”

Crowley looked over to Aziraphale. He knew he was grinning like a fool. “You heard your cousin, get in,” he prompted.

“And the bag?” Crowley asked, motioning to the backpack Aziraphale was carrying.

“We’re sleeping over,” Aziraphale said. “And before you panic, I’ve got permission from Sanderson for us to sleep out, and Bea’s mom spoke to your dad. So we’re free to do as we please until tomorrow afternoon.”

“You are the fucking best,” Crowley said with a grin, and Aziraphale could tell by the glint in his eye that he was fighting the urge to grab him and kiss him breathless. They both knew why that would be a bead idea, standing right at the school’s main entrance as they were.

“C’mon you two,” Bea called out the window. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Yes you do,” Aziraphale retorted, but they went over to the car.

“Am I a cabbie now?” Bea teased as they both got into the back seat, leaving her by herself in the front.

“Since it’s apparently my birthday celebration, I get to choose where I want to sit,” Crowley said, “and I want to hold my boyfriend’s hand. And kiss him once we’re out of sight of this stupid place, because he’s just so fucking amazing.”

“Ugh, you’re giving me a toothache with all that sweetness,” Bea groaned, but she was smiling as she said it.

Once they were out in town, Crowley did indeed make good on his promise of some very enthusiastic kissing. Dear Lord, it never got any less amazing, being able to kiss Crowley. Doing it out in public, even though they were just in Bea’s car, added a whole other level of excitement to it.

“So, are you guys out to your friends yet?” Bea asked at one point when they came up for air.

“No,” Crowley said, the corners of his mouth turning down. “It’s a bit complicated, what with us sharing a room and all.”

“We’re afraid they might split us up, if word gets back to the teachers,” Aziraphale added.

“Also don’t think my dad would take too well to the news that I’m sharing a room with my boyfriend,” Crowley added. “Or even that I have a boyfriend, or could be interested in having a boyfriend.”

“Fair enough,” Bea agreed. “But you know it will have to happen eventually, right?”

“Hmm,” Crowley agreed, staring out of the window. His thumb was running over Aziraphale’s knuckles, a nervous gesture that was nonetheless so tender that it melted Aziraphale’s heart.

“I wish we could be open about it,” Aziraphale found himself saying. “But the thought of losing each other... it’s more than I can bear.”

“Same, angel,” Crowley said, and pulled him in for another kiss.

\--

Crowley was surprised when Bea stopped in front of Luke’s house. He wasn’t sure where he’d been expecting them to go, but this wasn’t it.

Luke greeted them at the door. “Go round to the pool,” he said, “everyone’s back there.”

Everyone? What was going on here?

He saw what Luke meant when they stepped through the back door. Damon and Harry were there, each with a beer in hand, as was the whole gang from school, and – Crowley was strangely pleased to note – Pepper and Warlock too. All his friends in one place.

“How long have you been planning this, Bee?” he asked with a grin.

“Hey, blame the angel,” Bea grinned back. “Or thank him, as it may be. I was just the messenger.”

“This is awesome, thanks, Angel,” Crowley said, and they went out to go say hi to everyone.

When Liam arrived a bit later, still half covered in grease form his morning’s work at the garage, Aziraphale announced that it was time for cake and presents.

“I seem to recall someone saying you can’t have a birthday without cake,” Aziraphale winked, as he proceeded to light eighteen candles.

Luke brought out his guitar and led them in a death-metal rendition of Happy Birthday to You, which left Crowley bent double with laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“Make a wish,” Aziraphale instructed, and motioned for Crowley to blow out the candles.

Crowley didn’t know what more he could possibly wish for.

“And now for your gift,” Aziraphale said, producing an envelope with a flourish. “We all decided to club together and get you something special.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Bea interjected. “This was all his idea. We just had to cough up the cash.”

Crowley took the envelope – it was a dead standard white envelope, nothing fancy, with “Happy birthday from all of us!” written on the front in Aziraphale’s neat cursive.

Crowley turned it over, lifted the flap. Pulled out two pieces of printed card.

Blinked.

Turned them over. Turned them back.

Read the printed words again.

“Are you serious?” he said, when he regained the use of his vocal cords.

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale asked nervously.

“Like it? Like it?! Angel, they’re tickets to see Queen!” Crowley almost shouted .”This is the best birthday gift ever! You are so fucking perfect!” In the excitement of the moment, Crowley flung his arms around Aziraphale and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Only when he felt Aziraphale stiffen did he realise what he’d done. Shit! Shit, shit, shit! He just as good as outed them to their friends, without so much as a word of consent from Aziraphale. Fuck, he was an idiot.

He pulled away, fully prepared to play it off as a meaningless, impulsive gesture. Heat of the moment and all that. Maybe kiss Bea or Luke too, or whoever was standing nearby. Deflect attention from his blunder.

Aziraphale stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled. “That was a bit-“

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale said. He leaned in a bit, speaking so softly that only Crowley could hear. “We can... If you want. I’m okay with it.”

The enormity of what Aziraphale was saying hit him like a freight train.

“Really?” he whispered back. “You’re sure?”

Aziraphale gave a small nod, one corner of his mouth turned up in a nervous half-smile. And fuck, if that wasn’t the most unexpected birthday gift ever.

He brought a hand up to rest against Aziraphale’s cheek. “I love you, Angel,” he murmured through the smile that was threatening to split his face in half, and pulled his boyfriend in for a soft, chaste kiss.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187976701@N07/50359333116/in/dateposted-public/)

He could easily have gotten lost in that kiss for an indefinite period of time, but they were interrupted by a wolf whistle from Pepper, and Adam exclaiming “I knew it!”

Also, a resounding “What the fuck?!”

Ah, yes; trust Michael to ruin the moment.

Crowley glanced over at his friends. Adam and Pepper were grinning like lunatics, Brian was too busy stuffing chips in his face to show much of a reaction, Warlock and Wensley looked a little bewildered, but Michael... Michael looked like he’d just watched someone murder a puppy.

“We’re dating, Mike,” Crowley clarified, rolling his eyes. “In case, you know, the kiss wasn’t clear enough.”

Adam had made his way over to them in the meantime, and he flung an arm over Crowley’s shoulders. “How long have you been hiding this from me, you fox?” he demanded, poking Crowley in the ribs and making him squirm.

“Bit over three months now,” Crowley responded.

“Ew, man, really?” Michael said. “You two have been doing God-knows-what in the room next to mine for three months? That’s disgusting.”

“Kissing, Mike,” Crowley said, exasperated. “Just kissing. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“But come on, you must admit, it’s a bit weird, what with you sharing a room and all,” Michael went on. “I’m sure the teachers would flip out if they knew.”

“They won’t know anything unless we you tell them,” came Adam’s voice. “And you better not fucking do that.”

“That’s right,” Wensley interjected, surprisingly coming to their defence. “If you do, you can be sure your dad will find out about those magazines you hide under your mattress.”

Everyone knew that Michael’s dad was what one might call a traditional man; an elder in the local church, as authoritarian as any third-world dictator you cared to name, and with the temper of a drill sergeant with a toothache. It was not an insignificant threat.

“Fine,” Michael relented, knowing when he was beaten. “But keep it to yourselves.”

“Oh, honey,” Liam said, pulling out his campest demeanour, “If you have a problem with men kissing other men, this may be the wrong party for you.” He then proceeded to give Harry a steaming, open-mouthed kiss that made even Crowley blush.

Michael groaned.

\--

“Hey,” Adam plonked down on the grass next to Crowley and waved a packet of cigarettes at him. “Smoke?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, waving him off. This may have had something to do with Aziraphale hinting that he didn’t like the second-hand taste of smoking. “But I’ll take your Coke.” Adam passed over the bottle before lighting a cigarette for himself.

“So, you and Aziraphale, huh?” Adam grinned at him. Crowley just gave an answering hmm, not sure where this conversation was supposed to be going.

“Can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” Adam went on. “You two are really close. Can’t believe it’s been going on so long without any of us noticing, though.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Crowley said. Adam was one of his oldest friends, and he felt kinda bad keeping this from him for so long.

“No worries,” Adam brushed it off. “I totally get it. I’d probably be pretty secretive about something like that myself.”

Crowley smiled, grateful that Adam was so understanding.

“So how long have you known? That you’re gay?” Adam went on.

“Hmm, I’d say I’m bisexual, probably,” Crowley amended. “I mean, you know I’ve liked girls too. But, you know. I think I’ve sort of always known? Just didn’t put a name to it until a couple of years ago.”

“And you never thought to tell me this?” Adam was indignant.

“Can you blame me?” Crowley asked. “It’s not the sort of thing you go around advertising if you live in an all-boys school. You saw how Mike reacted. I wasn’t about to be branded as the gay boy no-one wanted to come close to.”

“Fair enough,” Adam conceded. And then, after a while. “What changed?”

“Aziraphale,” was the simple answer. “Fuck, I fell so hard for him, it’s stupid. He’s worth coming out for, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

Adam took a last long drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the grass and flicking the butt into the shrubs. “Say, Crow,” he said. “Is it possible to, like, be bisexual without knowing it?”

“Um, I think you’d notice it sooner or later? I mean, it kind of goes without saying that you can’t be attracted to guys without, you know, being attracted to them?” Crowley took in Adam’s expression; his friend was staring resolutely at the cigarette lighter he was turning over and over in his fingers, a faint pink tinting his cheeks that hadn’t been there a minute ago.

“Wait a second,” Crowley said gleefully. “What’s going on here? Come on, Hellspawn, spit it out. Are we talking about you?”

Adam groaned. “Fuuuuuck. Yes, okay, we are,” he finally admitted.

Crowley followed Adam’s gaze to where their friends were splashing around in the pool. He put two and two together. “Warlock?” he asked with a grin.

Adam’s blush intensified tenfold, which was answer enough.

As if he’d somehow known they were speaking his name, Warlock looked up, smiled and waved; it was clear to Crowley that the gesture was meant entirely for Adam.

“So. Are you gonna do anything about it?” he asked Adam.

“See, that’s the problem,” Adam said. “I have no idea if he’s into guys. I mean, probably not, right? And then I just fuck up a perfectly good friendship.”

“Hm, that’s a tough one,” Crowley agreed. At least with Aziraphale, it had been slightly more obvious what team he played for, so to speak. He was a bit of a stereotypical gay.

“I mean,” Adam went on, “He’s never talked about girlfriends or anything. But not about boyfriends either. So I really have no clue which way he swings.”

“I could maybe, I don’t know, do some recon for you?” Crowley suggested. “See what I can find out?”

“Really?” Adam was beaming. “Fuck, that would be... Yeah, okay. Thanks, Crow, really.”

“No problem, buddy.”

Well. Now he just had to figure out how to strike up that particular conversation with Warlock. That wouldn’t be awkward at all.

Fortunately, the fates had mercy on him. Aziraphale had found him in the kitchen, hunting for drinks, and captured him in a long, lingering kiss, the kind that stole his breath away and made him wish he could live in the moment forever. Their magical moment (which had stretched well past a minute by that point) was interrupted by none other than Warlock, dispatched to go find out why the drinks were taking so long.

“Fuck, sorry,” the dark-haired boy said, blushing and looking down.

“It’s fine,” Crowley said. “We’re not exactly secret anymore.”

“Although I suppose we could be a bit more discreet,” Aziraphale conceded. “Sorry if we made you uncomfortable.”

“No, no, not at all,” Warlock hurried to reassure him.

“Okay, then,” Aziraphale smiled, gave Crowley a last peck on the cheek, and headed outside.

Crowley and Warlock busied themselves getting the drinks and ice.

“You guys are lucky, you know,” Warlock spoke up. “That you can be... together. And your friends are cool with it. Can’t imagine my friends at school...” he trailed off, lost in the thought.

“Yeah, they’re a pretty cool bunch,” Crowley agreed. “Except for Mike, he has a broomstick so far up his arse it’s lifting his hat.”

Warlock laughed at his stupid joke, and Crowley felt himself relax.

“They’re your friends too, you know,” he said to Warlock.

“I guess,” Warlock said. “I mean, I know Adam is. Not so sure about the rest.”

Crowley snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, Adam is the leader of this pack. If he likes you, you’re in.”

“He has a bit of an alpha dog aura about him, doesn’t he,” Warlock said, an uncharacteristically soft smile painting his features.

Oh well, Crowley thought, he _had_ to ask now. “Warlock,” he said, carefully avoiding eye contact so as not to make the other boy nervous. “I’m sorry if this is an awkward question, and if you want to ignore it and walk away that’s fine, but I have to ask: do you like Adam?”

Warlock was quiet for so long Crowley started to think he had walked out, but when he looked up he saw the other boy nervously chewing at his lip.

“Okay, so that’s not a no?” Crowley guessed.

Still silence.

“Okay. Well. It’s none of my business, I know. But.” He looked around, checking that no-one else was in earshot. “If you did like him, in more than a friendly way... let’s just say I don’t think it would be unwelcome.”

And with that, Crowley took his two handfuls of soda bottles, and made his way back outside, leaving Warlock to think about what he’d said.

\--

Most of them ended up sleeping over at Luke’s house, after watching movies until some ungodly hour of the morning. Crowley couldn’t help noting that Adam positioned himself right next to Warlock on the sofa, leaning into him rather more than ordinary friendship warranted. His quizzical glance was met with a smile and a wink, which seemed to bode well; Crowley couldn’t wait to interrogate his friend when they got back to school.

First, though, he had to get through brunch with his parents. They had insisted on seeing him for his birthday, since he would be in town anyway. Which was weird enough in itself. They’d never bothered with a birthday celebration before. It wasn’t like the school was particularly far from home.

Anyway. A meal with his parents would be a tribulation at the best of times, but trying to function on a tiny amount of sleep made it so much worse.

“Thanks,” he said as Luke passed him a truly gigantic mug of coffee. “Gonna need this.”

“Better you than me,” Luke said, probably remembering the last interaction of the Crowley men he’d witnessed. “How are things now, anyway?” he asked.

“Better,” Crowley said, honestly. “I’m seeing someone, just to talk and shit, and I think it’s helping. But my dad...” Crowley just shrugged. He didn’t really know what to say. He still hadn’t really talked to his parents about what happened or what his plans for the future were. He knew he had to, but even the thought of it was enough to make him feel the beginnings of panic.

“Hmm. Yeah. About that,” Luke said. Crowley looked up at him questioningly.

“I got a phone call a while back, after that show you played with us.” Crowley nodded. Not a night he would forget anytime soon. Or ever.

“Turns out there was a guy in the audience who works with musicians – kinda like an agent or promoter or something. Said he was sniffing out new talent, and apparently we’re it.”

“Fuck, really? That’s awesome!” Crowley enthused.

“Yeah, he’s talking about organising us some gigs, trying to look at getting a demo recorded,” Luke went on.

“Wow, Luke. I’m so glad for you guys, you totally deserve it!” And he truly was. He was only part of MorningStar for a short while, but in some way their success still felt a little bit like his own. He’d also been on stage that night, after all.

“So, anyway,” Luke continued, grinning, “We talked about it, and we want you to be part of it. Like, join the band permanently.”

“But Liam’s recovered now, isn’t he?” Crowley asked, confused. “You don’t need me to fill in anymore.”

“Yeah, but he plays piano too, and we’ve been wanting to add some keyboard and synths to our songs for a while now. With the prize money, we can finally afford the kit. But then we still need a second guitar, which is where you would come in.”

Crowley felt excitement start to well up in his chest, but it deflated again just as quickly when he remembered what they’d just been talking about.

“Fuck, Luke,” he sighed. “That would be a dream come true. But you know how things stand, with my dad and all...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Luke sighed. “Fucking tragedy, having a talent like yours go to waste. But I wanted to put it on the table. Let you know the offer stands.”

Crowley considered his options. Tempting as it was, he knew it would be a terrible idea to go behind his father’s back again; he’d spent enough time with Agnes to be able to admit that. And throwing his parents over completely to pursue music full-time wasn’t a realistic option either; he was still dependent on them for little things like food and a place to stay. And as for speaking to his father...

_Yes, Agnes,_ he argued in his own mind _, I know I should. But how about you try it, hm? Let’s see if you’re so brave then._

He had to face it: being in a band just wasn’t on the cards for him right now. Even though it was everything he’d ever dreamed of. He should be practical.

And yet. And yet...

Fuck. Okay, he had to talk to Agnes. And Aziraphale (although that was a given). And eventually – he trembled a bit at the thought – his father. There was no getting out of it without resigning himself to a lifetime of doing what he hated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they’re tickets for Queen’s famous show at Wembley stadium (I may or may not have picked the year in which this is set purely for that purpose...) Fun fact: Tickets for that show cost £14.50, which is about £42 today if adjusted for inflation. The things I Google for fanfiction.
> 
> We're getting close to the end: one more chapter, and then a distant-future epilogue. Now if I can just get that sucker written..


	13. July & August 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The school year ends, and it's summer holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, my lovelies. This chapter was an uphill battle to write, I won't lie, but here it is. Just one more to go after this.

The first two weeks of July went by in a blur. Every waking moment was consumed by final exams, the results of which would seal the deal for immediate their futures. Aziraphale had applied to Oxford to study law, as his parents had demanded. What they didn’t know was that he’d also applied, and been accepted, to the English program. He knew they wouldn’t be pleased with that idea, though – they had made it perfectly clear when he was writing his initial applications that they wouldn’t be paying for what they considered to be a frivolous course of study – so he would only be able to do it if he got a full scholarship. To this end, he was studying harder than he ever had in his life, determined to ace every single exam. He’d been provisionally approved for the scholarship, as long as his final marks were up to scratch.

By the end of the last paper, he was running on fumes. His physical and mental energy had lasted exactly until the final _“pencils down.”_ As soon as his body and mind had the chance to relax, he could hardly get them to function at all. Crowley had herded him out of the classroom, tucked him into bed, and that had been that for him until the next morning.

Aziraphale slept for a solid eighteen hours before he was gently pulled back to consciousness by Crowley pressing soft kisses against his cheeks, his temples, his forehead. He couldn’t imagine a better way to wake up.

He turned around lazily, blinking against the soft morning light until his eyes focused on the beautiful boy hanging over his bed.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Aziraphale murmured, voice raspy with sleep. “C’mere.” He snaked an arm around Crowley’s neck and pulled him down on top of him.

“Morning Angel,” Crowley chuckled. “You’re looking better.”

Aziraphale snuggled into Crowley’s neck with a contented _hmmm_ , happy just to lie there as Crowley ran gentle fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. He could easily have stayed there for a couple more hours, if his bladder hadn’t been making itself known. Also, it seemed an awfully long time since his last proper meal.

With a groan they disentangled themselves and got ready for their very last day at school.

The day was spent packing up and saying their goodbyes. Aziraphale knew it wasn’t a final goodbye, especially as far as their friends were concerned, but still he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness. As much as he’d dreaded coming to St. Francis’, it had ended been perhaps the happiest year of his life. He’d made amazing friends, fallen in love, and found a place where he _fit_ for the first time in his life.

“You keep writing, d’you hear?” Ms Tracy said when he went to say goodbye to her. English had been Aziraphale’s best subject by far, and Ms Tracy seemed convinced that it was simply a matter of time before he published a novel or an anthology of poems that would take the world by storm. He wasn’t quite convinced that he was that talented, but he appreciated the gesture; if nothing else, her support had given him the confidence to write more prolifically than he ever had before. He was still shy about sharing his works with anyone other than Crowley and, in some cases, the kind English teacher, but he reckoned it was a start. He would certainly miss her classes.

Crowley also insisted that they go greet Dr Device properly. Which naturally meant greeting Mr Pulsifer at the same time.

There was some pleasant chit-chat about their plans for summer (the Queen concert, and a week away with their friends, among other things) and next year (Oxford for Aziraphale, business school for Crowley, as per their respective parents’ wishes).

“And your music?” Dr Device asked, because of course she wouldn’t let it lie.

“No plans there,” Crowley admitted. “Luke and them want me to take up a permanent spot in the band, but...” Crowley trailed off, words failing him, and he just waved his hands in a gesture of desperation.

“You should keep playing, Crowley,” Dr Device encouraged. “Your talent ought to be celebrated, and you deserve the joy of doing what you love.”

“Try telling my dad that,” Crowley said with a roll of his eyes.

“Have _you_ tried telling him?” she countered.

Crowley groaned. “This again?”

“Yes, this again,” Dr Device insisted. “Look, why don’t you ask him along to one of your sessions with Agnes? Neutral territory and all that. Maybe you two can talk things out.”

“I’ll consider it,” Crowley relented with a small smile. “Thanks, doc.”

“Thank you, Crowley,” she said, pulling him into a hug. “Now go out there and rock the world, okay? You too, Aziraphale.” He was also pulled into a hug.

“She’s right, you know,” Aziraphale said as they walked away. “It can’t hurt to talk to him. I mean, you can’t be any more banned from playing with the band than you already are.”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley conceded. “Just... holidays first, yeah? Then I’ll face that particular beast.”

\---

Saturday, of course, was the day Crowley hadn’t stopped talking about since his birthday: the day of the Queen concert.

It was unlike anything Aziraphale had ever experienced. The concerts they’d attended in Tadfield just couldn’t compare to the energy of the thousands of thousands of fans crammed into Wembley stadium. Aziraphale clung to Crowley’s arm, as much out of necessity as any romantic notions; the last thing he wanted was for them to get separated in this writhing throng of people.

The opening bands were pretty good, and Aziraphale thought the crowd was enthusiastic enough, but it all paled in comparison to the moment Freddie himself stepped onto the stage. The cheer hit them from all directions with an almost physical force, and there was nothing for it but to join in.

Thanks to Crowley’s tireless dedication to his musical education, Aziraphale could sing along to at least the chorus of almost every song that was played. He even found himself jumping up and down in time with the crowd around him, shouting and waving his arms and generally having the time of his life.

His favourite, though, was a slow song about an hour into the set. Aziraphale recognised the opening chords of _Love of my Life_ , and smiled when Crowley moved to stand behind him, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and resting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. They swayed along to the rhythm in perfect sync, like a back-to-front slow dance, and when the singing started Crowley crooned his own version of the song in Aziraphale’s ear.

_Love of my life, you've saved me; you've stolen my heart and now you love me_

_Love of my life, can't you see? Stay with me, stay with me,_

_Don't go-o away from me, because you know just what you mean to me._

Aziraphale chuckled. Of course Crowley would have his own version of the lyrics. Of course. He leaned back, enjoying his private performance.

_Love of my life, don't leave me; you've stolen my love, you won’t desert me._

_Love of my life, can't you see? Stay with me, stay with me,_

_Don't go-o away from me, because you know just what you mean to me._

_You will remember, when this is blown over, and everything's all by the way._

_When I grow older, I will be there at your side to remind you_

_How I still love you, I still love you..._

There was a promise in those words that made Aziraphale weak in the knees. He couldn’t know for sure if Crowley meant them on a personal level, or if he was just singing along to the song, but either way it gave him a glimpse of a future together. Of years, decades’ worth of _‘I love you’_ s. Aziraphale wanted that future more than he could express.

Aziraphale couldn’t contain the swell of affection he felt at those thoughts, so he turned his head to kiss Crowley full on the mouth, slowly and very thoroughly. It elicited a few cheers from the people around them. Aziraphale pulled away, blushing, surprised at his own boldness, but Crowley pulled him right back in for a reprise. He didn’t fight it. Out here, surrounded by people who knew what Freddie was and loved him regardless, they didn’t need to hide.

\---

The conversation with his father eventually happened the week after the Queen concert. Crowley knew he couldn’t put off talking to his parents for much longer, so he arranged with Agnes that they book a double session and his parents accompany him. Agnes had graciously agreed to act as facilitator (and, if necessary, umpire) for the discussion.

At first the conversation went about as well as one would expect; which is to say, it went like it always had: Crowley could barely get a word in edgewise, and when he did manage to say something about his hopes or desires, his father was quick to shoot it down. With the crisis of Crowley’s near-suicide faded, sealed up into a locked box and stashed in some forgotten corner in the attic of memory, they’d fallen back into their well-worn patterns of communication. It was the same old story as always. Why had he even expected anything different?

Crowley could feel the frustration burning behind his eyes, threatening to spill out in a deluge of entirely unhelpful tears. Agnes must have sensed his distress, because she came to his rescue.

“Crowley – Anthony – would you mind stepping outside for a moment? Maybe take a bathroom break? I need to talk to your parents privately.”

He simply nodded and fled without another word, grateful for the reprieve.

Crowley didn’t know what Agnes said to his parents, but it must have struck a nerve, because when he returned the atmosphere in the room had shifted ever so subtly.

“Now, Crowley,” Agnes said when he sat down again. “I think we need to start over. Why don’t you talk us through what happened that night? And everything leading up to it. Your father will listen and not interrupt you.” This last was said with a glare at Crowley senior that should have left a bruise. Agnes knew that Crowley had never really discussed that night with his parents in any sort of detail, even though she kept telling him that it was important. Well, there was no getting out of it now.

So Crowley took a deep breath, fixed his gaze firmly on his own hands, and started talking. For the first time in... well, as long as he could remember, Crowley had the chance to speak his mind without interruption. And once he started, it was as if the words wouldn’t stop flowing. It was painful, so painful, to live through all those memories again, but at the same time it was freeing to finally say all the things he’d been keeping inside for so long. Once or twice he saw his father twitch as if he wanted to interrupt, but each time he was put in his place by a stern look from Agnes.

When he at last ran out of words, his throat was burning and his cheeks were stained with tears. He was surprised when he finally looked up again, after a lengthy silence: his parents were looking just as emotional as he felt. His mother reached out a trembling hand to take his, and he didn’t miss the way his father discreetly ran a finger underneath his eyes. Their gazes met and locked, neither man looking away for a long while, and for the first time in years Crowley felt as if his father was truly seeing him. Not just their idea of who he was supposed to be, or the ways in which he’d fallen short of that ideal, but him as he truly was: Anthony J Crowley, warts and all.

After an appropriate length of time, Agnes interrupted them softly. “I think the important thing is how we go on from here.”

All three parties nodded.

“All right,” she continued. “Mr Crowley, you’ve told your son what you hope for from him. Now how about we give him a chance to tell us what he wants? I’m going to ask you to be quiet while he speaks, and you’ll have the chance to say your piece afterwards. All good?” His father nodded again, and for the first time, Crowley found himself actually believing it. For the first time, he found the courage to tell his father what he wanted for his life.

\---

At the end of the day, they reached a compromise: Crowley would still go to business school as his father wished, but he would be allowed to play with the band and pursue music in his free time. It wasn’t exactly what either party had wanted – not enough music for Crowley’s taste, and far too much for his father’s – but it was a plan they could both live with.

Crowley still held out hope that he could somehow prove to his father that music would be worthwhile. If he could just make a success of it, somewhere in the free time between classes...

But that was September’s worry. For now, they had a holiday to enjoy.

Adam, ever the party animal, had decided that they simply _had_ to have an end-of-school celebratory breakaway, and to this end had secured accommodation on Peter’s family’s farm for the whole lot of them, including Warlock and Pepper (But not Michael. Since Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship became public, he’d rather been avoiding them. No-one particularly missed him.)

Their holiday was supposed to be a week, but since they were enjoying themselves and there was no pressing need to go home, it stretched to almost two. It was, simply put, a perfect end-of-school holiday. They spent their days horse-riding (Crowley was not a fan, after the first day’s riding left him with two lovely bruises on his far-too-bony butt), swimming in the creek, hiking and picnicking in the nearby woods. They took a bus down to the nearest beach a couple of times and spent their days splashing in the waves and poking around in rock pools. They even went to a funfair (where, to everyone’s surprise, Aziraphale excelled at the target shooting game, winning a huge stuffed snake that he promptly gave to Crowley). And every night, Crowley and Aziraphale fell asleep together, nestled safely in each other’s arms.

Yes, it was perfect. Too bad it couldn’t last for ever. The real world awaited.

\---

The last weekend in August, Crowley helped Aziraphale to settle into his dorm room. Since his parents found out he was _throwing away a golden opportunity_ (as they put it) by choosing to study English instead of Law, they’d barely spoken two words to him. This left Crowley as the only person to help him move. Luckily, Bea had volunteered the use of her little red Bug, which was a heck of a lot easier than taking the bus.

“There you are,” Crowley said proudly as Aziraphale closed the cupboard, having just unpacked the last of his things. “All ready to take Oxford by storm.”

Aziraphale gave him a watery sort of smile.

“Hey, Angel, what’s up?” Crowley asked. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yes. Tickety boo,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m just... well, a bit overwhelmed, I guess. This is all so... much. Especially without you here.”

Crowley gathered him up in a hug. He’d never been good with words, but at least he could do this.

“You’re gonna do great, Angel,” he said. “And we’ll see each other every weekend, yeah? It’s not so far. And we’ll talk on the phone, every day if you like. You’ll see, it’ll be fine.” He pressed a gentle kiss into Aziraphale’s hair.

Crowley was speaking with a confidence he wasn’t really feeling. He, too, was dreading being separated from his boyfriend. They’d spent the last year in each other’s constant company, after all. Even in the holidays, they’d seen each other every day. This, spending every week apart – it was a nightmare.

But they would make it work. They simply had to. There was no way he would allow this (or anything else for that matter) to break them up.

Azirpahale pulled back a little to look up at him. “I love you,” he said simply, eyes shining with part joy and part unshed tears. “Till the stars burn out and the sky falls down, Crowley I will always love you.”

“Love you too, Angel,” Crowley said. “More than anything.”

And he pulled him in for kiss, putting all the feelings that he didn’t know the words for into it.

He would keep Aziraphale no matter what. This love was the one thing he wasn’t willing to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazingly, you can watch the entire recording of Queen’s Wembley show [on YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmSbCgVBaMM). Shout out to Brian May’s amazing 80’s hair.


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of their lives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late and a little short, but... it is what it is. I hope it is a satisfying ending 😊

**_July 2013_ **

“Well, would you look at that?” Aziraphale declared, shaking out his newspaper (despite how much Crowley went on about some _news app_ on his phone, Aziraphale still insisted on getting an actual printed newspaper delivered. It just wasn’t the same on a screen). “Seems the government has finally decided that we can call ourselves married.”

“Ha!” Crowley answered. “About time they got with the program. Seriously, we’ve been together what, over a quarter of a century now? Don’t think you can get much more married than that.”

“That’s true enough. I’d say we’re married in every way but in name.” Aziraphale finished reading the article before putting down the paper. “Would you want to do it, though? Get married?”

“Not sure I see the point, really,” Crowley mused. “I mean, we’ve already got that civil partnership thingy, yes? What else is there to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale said. “It sounds kind of nice though, doesn’t it? Calling each other husband?”

“Hmm, that does have a nice ring to it,” Crowley replied with a smile. “How would my husband feel about a kiss?”

“Your husband would like that very much,” Aziraphale answered, as he always did, and leaned over to press their lips together.

Crowley had to leave for work, but Aziraphale was only teaching his first class at 11, so he poured himself another cup of tea and indulged in a spot of reminiscing.

Twenty-seven years. That’s how long they’d been together now.

Felt like six bloody millennia, sometimes.

\--

That first year at university had been rough on both of them. It would have been a big adjustment even at the best of times, and suddenly being apart after living together for a year didn’t help at all. Aziraphale still did better than Crowley, though; at least he liked his coursework, and his living arrangements weren’t terrible. Crowley hated business school, and even more than that he hated living with his parents. Apparently his father couldn’t quite get the hang of treating his son like an adult now. Even worse, Luke was on some sort of ego trip that was causing a lot of drama within the band, and gigs were becoming fewer and fewer.

Aziraphale could see the strain it took on Crowley every time they saw each other – which was every weekend, come hell or high water. Every weekend one or the other of them would get on a bus and travel to Oxford or Tadfield, and every Sunday when it was time to say goodbye they would be in tears at the bus stop.

It was hell.

They survived the first year, if not unscathed, but then things really went to pot, and in the worst possible way.

It happened during the summer break, which, like the last one, they had spent joined at the hip. Or, more precisely, joined at the lips. Unfortunately, Mr Crowley chose just the wrong moment to show up at home unannounced one Thursday morning, and caught the two of them making out on the couch.

What followed made the blow-up after the Battle of the Bands seem mild.

This time there was one significant difference, though: Crowley refused to back down. Aziraphale could still remember the strange mixture of terror and pride he felt as Crowley told his father exactly where he could get off talking about his boyfriend that way.

That night, and for the rest of the summer, Crowley stayed with Bea and her mom. He decided to drop out of business school (not as if his dad would continue paying for it anyway), and started looking for a job in Oxford.

Mr Crowley, of course, called Aziraphale’s parents. What followed was a long speech on the topic of how disappointed they were in him, an offer to help him find healing from his deviation, and when he scoffed at this, an icy silence that made their previously strained relationship seem positively affectionate in comparison.

By the end of August, Aziraphale and Crowley moved into a flat in Oxford together, in time for the new academic year. They’d spent a long time considering whether it was perhaps foolish for Aziraphale to give up his place in the dorm, but at the end of the day they both knew that he would hardly ever be sleeping there anyway if staying over at Crowley’s was an option. And they already knew that they were compatible as roommates.

The next few years were tough financially, but so much better than that first year in every other way. Crowley took what jobs he could – he did a variety of cashier- and waitering-type jobs before finally landing a nice job in a music store that paid enough to cover their rent with bit left over. Aziraphale’s top-notch grades meant his scholarship still covered all his tuition and books, and he also made some money through tutoring and offering his services as a proof-reader. They could at least afford the essentials, and once in a while they could enjoy a little luxury, like a new tape or a nice restaurant.

They didn’t have much, but they had each other, and that was enough.

And somewhere in those few chaotic years, Crowley’s doctor introduced him to a little green pill called Prozac. His life was never the same again.

Fast-forward twenty-odd years, and they were still together, still happy. Still in Oxford, although Aziraphale’s position as a professor of English allowed them a rather nicer flat now. Crowley, for his part, still worked at the music store in the mornings – although he had been promoted to a managerial position now, and paperwork was the bane of his existence. In the afternoons he gave guitar lessons to a handful of enthusiastic schoolkids, and on the weekends he performed with a local music group at pubs and farmers’ markets in town.

They’d even kept in touch with most of their friends from school, although they were scattered all over the country. Adam still lived in Tadfield, and every couple of years he arranged a week away for whoever could attend; Aziraphale and Crowley made sure never to miss it.

Maintaining family relationships had been a bit more difficult. Aziraphale’s parents had never been able to accept his sexuality, and their contact was limited to the occasional text message or perhaps a phone call for an important birthday. Gabriel hadn’t spoken to his younger brother in years.

Unexpectedly, the Crowleys had done a bit better that the Feltons at coming to terms with the situation. It took a good few years to get there, but although their relationship was still strained it was no longer hostile.

Bea, of course, was still like a sister to them both. To everyone’s surprise, she had proven to have quite the head for business, and Uncle Nick was now grooming her to take over the business when he finally retired (which Crowley suspected would only happen the day he dropped dead). And as for her mother, she was alive and well, and would tell anyone who asked that she had three kids: one biological daughter and two sons that she chose for herself. All in all, it could have been worse.

Most importantly, they had each other. And they always would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, my dears. They got their happily ever after in the end, or as much of one as any of us do.
> 
> There will be more stories from me, I promise that, so if you want to get notified when they publish subscribe to my profile and you'll get emails. In the works is a short story with Crowley as a musician, a story of two chefs, a sad sad short story, and dipping my toes into the Witcher fandom (or is that the Jaskier fandom? Yes, I think that's it).
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading and leaving comments, I treasure each and every one of you 😘 Please feel free to pop in on Tumblr (sani-86) and say hi!


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